Home Is
by Copper Tragic
Summary: Faramir sighed but would not allow the tears to come. "My earliest memory is of my mother dying," he said. "Everything seemed to get worse day by day after that." Warning: Child abuse
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

Author's note: This chapter isn't great, but I've had trouble getting anything written, so expect a new version soon but for now, here's the first chapter! Hope you enjoy. Oh, and the prayer formatting will not be used in further chapters, only I liked it so for this one.

*****

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Our father which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name...

"Faramir?" said Boromir. The younger boy sat in the corner, his head hanging between his knees. Uneven tendril of mousy brown hair formed a curtain around his face. Boromir looked oddly at his brother, cocking his head to one side. Boromir and Faramir were alike in their features, brown eyed and brown haired as both were, but Faramir had a softer look, a compliment to his effeminate build, while Boromir had the build of a proper warrior, as he already considered himself at seventeen years. Now Faramir lifted his head to meet his brother's gaze. "Will you do me the honour?" he extended his hand.

Boromir's sword hung from one hand, resting but at ready. The other hand, which he extended to his younger brother, was empty save calluses. Faramir not only disliked sparring, he was awful at it. His calling was more clearly in books, yet their father insisted that the boys practice one and one half hours each day--"See if you can't teach him something worthwhile," Denethor had instructed Boromir regarding Faramir. Boromir loved his father, and he loved his brother, and so he spoke as he went through the motions of a proper fight, well knowing that Faramir was ignoring him, yet pleasing both members of his family. Now he offered his hand, hoping that Faramir might take it and take up his sword.

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Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…

With a sigh Faramir took his brother's hand. Boromir's face broke into an immediate smile and he hauled his brother up, clapping the boy on the back. Less than half his heart was applied to his ready stance, and so Faramir seemed more like a sleepwalker than a warrior. "Spread your feet a little more," Boromir instructed, and Faramir did. "And your sword should be higher. It is a weapon, remember that, and hold it with care. Tighten your grip," Boromir said, and again his brother complied.

Faramir was not a simpleton. That is not the reason he did what his brother told him. On the contrary, he had a sharp mind and was a quick learner. But if he showed the merest potential with the blade, his father might have him join the armed forces of Gondor. Was there any fate worse? For the steward's youngest son, there was not. Faramir abhorred as violence, and with adequate reason--which will be later made clear. Were he braver, he might defy his father to his face and refuse to practice sparring, but Faramir was not so brave, and so he continued to sit and watch his brother practice, occasionally partake, and waste ninety minutes of every day.

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On earth as it is in Heaven.

Faramir squinted his eyes, dreading the impact with which Boromir would strike and expect him to defend. His arm would likely be numb for hours after, he knew, for he never held the sword with enough power--he had not enough power with which to hold his sword against Boromir. Faramir was only a skinny, effeminate twelve-year-old, nothing to Boromir, who had the strength of a cave-troll (as far as Faramir knew about cave-trolls), though no temper to match. Now the cave-troll looked into the eyes of his brother, who reminded him now of a fearful rabbit, quavering as he sensed danger but unable to hear the bowman pull his strings taut. He lowered his weapon.

Faramir gaped. Boromir was…not going to fight him? Had the Valar smiled upon him today? There was no other possible explanation. The boy lowered his sword with a smile of thanks for his brother. "Why?" he could not help but inquire.

Boromir smiled kindly. "Because you have no wish to fight. You do as I say, Faramir, but your heart is not in the battle. You shiver as you anticipate my strike. You are prey, not predator. Perhaps Iluvatar has other plans for you, but Tulkas has certainly no intention of turning you into a warrior. Meaning no offense," he added quickly. "Perhaps you would be better suited spending this hour in the library?"

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Give us this day, our daily bread…

And so Faramir had left the practice room, his fortune for once happy. A pleasant, mild smile set upon his features as he trotted down the corridor, heading for the library. As he came to one particularly deserted corridor, it occurred to Faramir that the day was pleasant. The corridor was dimly lit, but light streamed in through windows placed at equal intervals. Every particle of dust seemed caught in their lazy forces, lit cheerfully as they floated through the rivers of light, then out again and to the next. Were those same particles passing on to the next bit of light? Faramir could not tell, but he was entranced by them. For a moment he stood, watching, then he sank to his knees in the corner of the corridor.

From here he had a clear view of the entire hallway; he could see if anyone entered at the opposite end and could watch them pass through the clouds of light. This pleased him, but his blind spot--the door through which he had entered the corridor--was not to his liking. Where could he hide that no one would ever see him? Surely there was some place. Faramir searched the space methodically, unwilling to sacrifice his sanctuary so easily.

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And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.

Just as Faramir was preparing to admit defeat, finding no better spot in which to hide than beneath a chair, a quite exposed spot into which he would likely not fit, he heard rapidly approaching footsteps and voices. One of the voices seemed to be angry, the other worried. The angry voice shouted harshly, and the worried voice squeaked out swift words. The angry voice Faramir recognized easily as his father's, and his pulse began to race. If he was caught truant, with his father in such a temper--

Preferring not to consider the consequences, Faramir ducked beneath the chair as the door beside him slammed open. It was a tight fit, but being scrawny had its advantages, and Faramir had himself folded neatly beneath the chair and out of sight--obvious sight, at any rate. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain someone would hear it, but as Denethor and his chief advisor hurried past, Denethor's stride confident and irate, the advisor fighting to keep up and advise at the same time, neither even glanced at Faramir. When the door at the opposite end of the corridor was slammed shut, Faramir breathed a sigh of relief. He had gone undiscovered.

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Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Quickly, Faramir unfolded himself, taking extreme precautions not to overturn the chair. His heart had not slowed. What if Denethor had spoken with Boromir? What if he knew that Faramir was not practicing his swordplay? He would be angry, that much was for sure. Worry distracted him, and just as Faramir was standing, his foot latched onto one of the chair's legs. It fell to the floor with a resounding crash. Faramir cursed under his breath and sought to right the chair at once. Surely someone had heard the crash, and he would be found out…!

Faramir fled the room. He ran until he crashed into the practice room and bent double, holding his side. His face was red and he could scarcely breathe, in the most part from fear but certainly not aided by an amount of running. Boromir dropped his sword at once and knelt, holding onto Faramir's shoulders. "Are you all right?" he asked. "Did something happen? Faramir, speak to me, brother!"

"Boromir, has--I--"

"What are you doing?" demanded a voice from the doorway. Both boys looked up to see their father standing there, and Faramir's heart sank. Boromir would tell the truth. He would not know to lie.

But, surprisingly, he did lie. "Faramir and I were practicing hand-to-hand combat, Father," Boromir said. "I fear I have injured him."

Denethor raised an eyebrow, then spat, "See the healers, Faramir, and both of you get cleaned up. We have a visitor."

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Amen.

There was only one person capable of making Denethor so spiteful simply by existing, and the moment his father was gone from the doorway Faramir broke into a grin. Mithrandir had come to visit!

*****

To be continued

Concerning the prayer: My mum's a Jew and my dad's a Protestant. I'm not religious. Because of this, the prayer is only a poem to me. I use it as an atmospheric device, as similarly I might write, "Tyger, tyger burning bright/In the forest of the night," and there's no William Blake in Arda, either. It's not a glitch or a matter of ignorance, it's just for atmosphere. No one is saying this prayer; had I wanted someone to pray, I probably would have written a few lines to Elbereth. It's only a poem. 


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof  
  
Author's note: For those of you unfamiliar, Thorongil is the name Strider uses in Rohan and Gondor (at least, I'm pretty sure it is. . .)  
  
*****  
  
Faramir gave little thought to his father's orders, for his excitement was too great. Instead of seeing the healers about an invented injury, cleaning himself up and changing into clothes not stained by sweat, Faramir slipped from the Citadel and into the streets of Gondor. The Seventh Circle was sparsely populated, and being as he was an intelligent boy Faramir knew that he would be noted there easily. While it was the best looked-after section of the city, most were not allowed in it. "A shame," mused Faramir, as he dipped his fingers into the fountain and drew out a hand-scoop of water, which he drank greedily. Again he drew out a handful of water, regretting the clouds of dirt which exploded as his fingertips entered the water.  
  
The day grew later. The windows through which Faramir had seen the light streaming faced to the west, to the setting sun, now but a molten splotch upon the horizon. Heat radiated almost visibly from the orb, making it seem somehow less ethereal than it did during the day yet all the more majestic. Its colour was richer, and Faramir thought that this hour might make a man crazy; he might catch one glimpse of that sun and disappear into it for ever. Averting his eyes, Faramir caught sight of the eastern sky's reflection. Already the horizon had adopted a dark hue.  
  
Having tarried all ready too long, Faramir sprang to his feet and sprinted from the Seventh Circle. Often, in his spare moments, he sat near the White Tree. Its old branches gave him peace. Faramir loved his country very much, and so the Tree to him was more than simply growth. It symbolized many of his beliefs, and the ideals of his country: courage, honour, fortitude. . .So many great good things all in one small package. Many trees just beyond the Outer Wall of the city were trees in which one might climb or bask in the shade of on a hot day, but not this tree. This was a Tree for meditation and reverence.  
  
All at once Faramir was drawn from his thoughts by the sound of echoing footsteps. His heart raced as the fear of being discovered was realized, and it took a moment for Faramir to understand that the footsteps had only been echoes of his own. There was one place only within the Seventh Circle where footfalls repeated themselves many times. Faramir had inadvertently come to the Silent Street. Faramir had only once before come to the Silent Street, a time he hardly cared to remember, though vaguely his memory suspected that gay laughter had once filled the empty way. . .  
  
Now Faramir startled, for he truly did hear footsteps, and he was standing motionless before the House of Kings. As the deer who knows of his predator the boy froze, then shifted his glance frantically from one side of the Street to the next. The voices and footsteps came closer; it was a gruff voice and one Faramir did not recognize, nor did he trust it. Ducking into the first half-concealed place he noted, Faramir took refuge behind one of the pillars flanking the entry way to the House of Kings.  
  
There was a game Faramir had invented as a child. He played that game now. It consisted of holding his breath until he thoughts his lungs would burst within him, then promising himself relief after ten seconds, and another ten, until at last he was sufficiently alone. Because, Faramir pretended and came to believe, if you held your breath and concentrated hard enough, you would be invisible to everyone. Only someone who knew the game could find you when you were invisible.  
  
But as Faramir reached seven, the footsteps stopped just ahead of him. He panicked, but kept on counting, holding the air in his lungs. 'Please, please go away!' he thought silently, then quickly returned his concentration to not being seen. In his distraction the boy did not notice that he had been spotted until a hand rested on his shoulder. "Faramir, is that you?" asked a kind, papery old voice.  
  
Faramir hardly dared believe it. "Mithrandir!" he cried, breathing again and daring to open his eyes. It was so, the wizard stood before him. "You really have come!" In his relief the boy threw his arms around the wizard, who replied that he had indeed come, and half-hugged Faramir in return. It was then that Faramir caught sight of the figure behind Mithrandir. He stood back, keeping to the shadows as though frightened of the light, he seemed himself to be but a wisp of shadow. Faramir was afraid of him. "Mithrandir?" he ventured. "D-do you know him?"  
  
"Who?" Mithrandir asked, drawing away from Faramir to turn, then smiled. "Ah, my friend Thorongil. Yes, I know him well, you need not fear him, young Faramir. Thorongil? Will you not come forward that he might see you better?" Mithrandir rarely ordered anyone about, and though this was an offer his preference was painfully apparent. Thorongil obediently stepped into a lighter part of the street and threw back his hood. Faramir gasped, for this was quite possibly the most fearsome man he had ever seen.  
  
"Greetings to you, Faramir of Gondor, and well met," said Thorongil, though it was difficult to see if he meant this or was placating Mithrandir. His mirth bothered Faramir somewhat; what was funny? But he did not dare contradict this frightening gentleman, with the dirtiest black hair Faramir had ever seen, his face tan and unshaven. He looked feral, and this was what frightened Faramir: not the man's appearance, but the implications of it.  
  
"Well met," Faramir stammered in return.  
  
"You need not fear me, boy, I am no more than another stray of Mithrandir's following," replied Thorongil in amusement. Mithrandir turned and gave him a sharp look.  
  
"Faramir is the son of the Steward, Thorongil, and you are no more stray than he. But come! The sky to the west dims, the sun has set. We have a destination to reach before we sleep, where also you, Faramir, should be. Come," said Mithrandir again, "we shall walk together."  
  
Mithrandir led, with Faramir and Thorongil following, the elder man three paces back from Faramir at all times. Despite this Faramir was wary, and glanced often over his shoulder, until at last Thorongil stood beside him, and the boy jumped to realize this. "I am sorry to have frightened you," Thorongil said at once, before Faramir could react. "I have not much of a way with people, as Mithrandir often reminds me. If you will have it, I would like to be your friend, Faramir."  
  
Faramir looked to the man in surprise, then nodded mutely and they shook hands. Faramir noticed the calluses covering Thorongil's palm and fingers, or felt them, the same calluses as Boromir had, only more of them, and it was then that Faramir noticed the sword at the older man's side and the cloth-wrapped bow slung over his back. Thorongil, whose night vision was keen and whose attentions had been finely tuned by many games of 'Seek' with the Elves, noted the bruise on Faramir's wrist, though it was fading. The fact that there was a bruise on Faramir's wrist was not in and of itself significant, but the size and shape of the bruise caught Thorongil's interest. It looked almost as if--  
  
"Not that I mind your getting on, but old Bilbo might have reached the Citadel in less time!" Mithrandir called to the two Men who had fallen behind. Thorongil, who knew Bilbo well, smiled at this remark. Faramir, less familiar with the hobbit, was baffled, but as Thorongil changed his gait to a jog the boy was forced to stretch his legs to keep up. Strange though this Thorongil was, Faramir thought as he ran along in the near darkness, he was someone Faramir was glad to have met.  
  
*****  
  
Landorie: You were the only person who would give me a suggestion! Uh-oh. Is there anything you particularly were looking for in this story? As it is being written at your suggestion, I'll try to temper it to your expectations (not too much, of course, because it's still my story, but having suggestions sometimes does help). Oh, one last thing--it's fine if you want to call me "lad" just so long as you are aware that I am actually female.  
  
Mother of Dragons: Was it? Son of a silly person! I could've sworn. . .grr. Sorry, angry at myself, not at you. Could've sworn his hair was brown. Sorry about that.  
  
All right, I am trying to update this as much as possible, but I'm going through a dry spell right now. I know my prose is terrible. In a while, or whenever things in my life pick up a bit, or when my muses return to me, I promise a decent story. Until then, bear with me? And reviews always appreciated! 


	3. Chapter Three

"You brought me here to know my thoughts on the White City, did you not?" Thorongil asked, once he and Gandalf had retired from the presence of the steward.  
  
"That does sound like something I would do," Gandalf replied absently, filling his pipe. He had certainly wasted no time in this area. With a sigh, Thorongil moved to the window and leaned against the sill, enjoying the fresh air. Gandalf watched him for a moment, then stood beside him. "Have you now any opinions?" he asked.  
  
Thorongil, in an unaccustomed haste, replied, "I do not trust him."  
  
"Who? The boy?" asked Gandalf. Thorongil was not at all fond of children, although he himself had been one not long ago. The possibility of Thorongil disliking Faramir on the basis of the boy's age was plausible, although Faramir was mature as far as Gandalf knew him. Also included in this question was Boromir, who had appeared beside his father with importance carved upon his face.  
  
"No, the boy is fine," Thorongil said. "His brother, as well, though a blind follower of his father, if rightly I judge." He glanced at Gandalf, who nodded to this. "It is the steward whom I dislike. I know not why; his manner, perhaps, or simply his expression. Nevertheless, this man I do not trust. This leads me to guard myself against his boys."  
  
"Why?" queried the wizard. Thorongil shrugged.  
  
"The elder follows the old man--" at this count Gandalf raised one eyebrow, and Thorongil amended, "follows his father without thought for himself. This much he showed as he looked to his father before moving or speaking. Who is to say the younger, though less controlled by himself, is not similar?"  
  
Gandalf pondered this for a long while, decided it valid, then said, "You watch me in much the manner you dislike of Boromir."  
  
"I watch you to know your thoughts," Thorongil reputed. "Although I do respect your opinion, my life is not run by it. You are my companion; no man alive is my master." The old wizard chuckled, and Thorongil felt himself blush. He had played so foolishly into the wizard's hands! "Oh, so well!" he admitted his defeat. It was not learning Thorongil minded: it was this sort of lesson executed by his own humiliation.  
  
Amiably changing the subject, Thorongil inquired, "How long do you wish to remain in Minas Tirith?"  
  
The wizard considered. "No more than a week," he replied at last. "Will you be accompanying me to Imladris?"  
  
Now it was Thorongil's turn to consider. "Perhaps," he replied. "We shall see."  
  
"All right," Gandalf replied. "That was a no, was it not?" Thorongil nodded to the affirmative and Gandalf sighed. "It is not my place to say so, but they do care for you."  
  
"I know," replied the Man absently. "Must we discuss this again?"  
  
"No, if you do not wish to. Ah, but you do remind me. The king of Rohan sent a letter for Lord Denethor. Would you give it to him?" Gandalf produced the aforementioned document from some pocket hidden within his garb and held it out. Thorongil took the letter.  
  
*****  
  
Faramir toyed with the wooden flute in his hands. Music. He was more gifted with the flute than with a sword--women's work! He scorned himself in his mind. What good was a son--a second son, no less!--who could not fight, would never amount to anything in battle or military? Who had need for such an effeminate boy? If only he had been born a girl, perhaps then he would not be such a disappointment.  
  
Not often was Faramir so hard on himself, but whenever he encountered Denethor, his uses became blatant--and shamefully few. If only he could be Boromir, the useful son, the elder son, the loved son. Bitterness edged into his mind. Words he rarely used against himself, words that sounded dirty and that, Faramir knew, no man ought speak around a woman, spoke for the first time in his mind. They surprised and disturbed him, but were not foreign, and he allowed them to stay.  
  
Resigning himself at last from the swears and to his insufficiencies, Faramir placed the roughly carved wood to his lips and blew one sweet note from the instrument before being interrupted. "Faramir?" called Boromir from within the room. Faramir hopped from the rail upon which he had perched for many minutes, though unwillingly. He had found peace in the darkness, the warm winds and birdcalls.  
  
"Yes?" asked Faramir, meeting his brother's eyes.  
  
"Father asks for you," Boromir replied, voicing his brother's greatest fear, though unknowingly. Faramir, who had expected this, simply nodded. What would come, and always did come, was unstoppable and beyond human control. Faramir knew this. "He seems angered. Why did you not do as he bade you earlier? You know how Father feels about Gandalf."  
  
"How Father feels," Faramir replied, his voice careful, not judging nor arguing but simply stating, "need not be my opinion." He would never have dared say such a thing to his father; indeed, it was strange for him to say such a thing to anyone at all: his brother, even himself.  
  
"Aye," Boromir concurred, "this I have borne witness to. Nevertheless, this is a topic for you and he to discuss and no place of mine. Good luck, brother. You had best go at once."  
  
"Thank you," Faramir said, gazing once into his brother's eyes and feeling desperate. For one moment he longed to cry out to Boromir, to ask him--to beg him for help, but dared not. No, Faramir would be his own master and protector.  
  
What surprised Faramir that night was not his own actions nor his father's. What surprised him was the lack of foreplay, the belt in Denethor's hands before Faramir entered the room. The boy was not surprised by pain or the sticky wetness of his own blood. It did not even surprise him that his father went through this process with no emotion save anger and hate, and with only three words. "Shut the door," he said when Faramir entered his study, and nothing further.  
  
*****  
  
To Be Continued  
  
Joshua Nenya: Thanks. . .this is probably the most embarrassing thing I will ever have to say: greetings from California! (don't laugh, please, my family voted AGAINST the recall!)  
  
Daw the Minstrel: I don't usually write Aragorn that way, either, but in this story he is, well, dark. He is approaching an age at which he will be forced to come into his heritage, and this is increased especially by his being in Gondor. Aw, but thanks for saying that anyway. As for the prose, well, there's no heart in it. I'm faking it, forcing it, but not really meaning it, which is exactly how my prose is dry. It's annoying. I can do better than this, which is why I say it's dry.  
  
Pippin the Hobbit-Elf: It's twenty-four years before the War of the Ring. Incidentally that is the same year in which Eowyn was born (at least, I think it was), but that wasn't intentional.  
  
Dark Aura016: Thanks. I can see the necessity of swearing on occasion, honestly I do not condone such excessive use of it but to each his own, I suppose.  
  
Angel of Harlem: Gr, and that's only the best chapter! I love when Aragorn is crowned king, it's just such a nice bit. . .darn it, I ought to get ver being so sentimental, but it makes me cry sometimes. Hey, I reckon at tha account Faramir and Eowyn must have looked something like Elrond and Celebrian.  
  
Lirenel: If only this were as good as yours! 'Faramir's Story' I am familiar with under the name of JediKnightBalthasar, but I lost it. . .pity, really, but now that I have another link to it I shall be catching up. It was really well done! 


	4. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any recognizable characters and/or places thereof  
  
*****  
  
"You are certain of this?" Gandalf regarded his companion evenly, but uncertainty rang clearly in his voice. Thorongil knew he had made grave accusations against the Steward of Gondor, ignoring his place as a visitor and observer to report what he believed had happened to Gandalf. Of what else to do he had no ideas. Surely, though, surely Gandalf would know.  
  
Yet as the wizard sighed and his eyes softened, Thorongil realized something that would change his thoughts for ever. "You knew all along!" he accused. "You knew, and you allowed this to continue?"  
  
"Yes, I allowed this to continue. Try to understand. Among the Elves, you learned to despise violence--" Gandalf began, but Thorongil cut him off impatiently.  
  
"Are you telling me you condone such abuse of an innocent child?" Thorongil said with angry vehemence. Unable to stand still, he paced the room like a caged lion, fighting for control of himself. Every few moments he would pick up an item, twist it in his hands as though to break it, then replace it and pace again.  
  
"Thorongil," said Gandalf, in an equally angry, clipped voice. "Remember to whom you are speaking. You disapprove of Denethor's actions because of their violent nature. One hour past you cared little for the boy if you cared for him at all. You are failing to think for yourself in your opposition to violence on the strict basis of your upbringing." When this speech was finished the recipient stood, frozen still, hardly able to keep his mouth closed.  
  
"Gandalf. . .I. . .of course, you are correct," Thorongil stammered. "Yet from childhood I was taught that violence is wrong, and cannot help but wonder what Faramir--is this his name?--has done that the sounds I heard would be as I believe they are. To discipline a child by such means. . ."  
  
"It is their custom," Gandalf replied, but in an understanding and compassionate tone. Thorongil met the wizard's eyes. "Not to such degrees as I believe Denethor executes against his youngest, but certainly to smack a boy's hand or to spank a child, in Gondor, is an acceptable manner of correction. To one accustomed to punishments little worse than missing supper or writing lines, this must seem quite extreme." Thorongil felt a blush creep over his cheeks. It was true that physical punishments had never been used against him, and that repulsion at violence had been fed to him, and he had swallowed it as easily as milk.  
  
And yet. "I cannot condone Denethor's treatment of Faramir. The boy is shy and frightened, he plays at disappearing. Being the second son should not be a punishable offense. But there is nothing we can do for him, Thorongil, and this you must remember. It is not our place to take Faramir from harm's way, no matter how we care for him. I understand the difficulties of this," he added after, laying a hand on the man's shoulder as Thorongil's posture slumped slightly. "I have spent many years fighting the urge to take him away, take him somewhere safe. It is neither my place nor is it yours."  
  
"One day," Thorongil said, his muscles taut beneath his skin as fury boiled within him, "one day it will be my place." He raised his head and looked straight into the eyes of the old wizard, who gave an approving smile. Many years Thorongil had put out of mind or made no use of his ancestry. Gandalf was pleased to see him at last making use of, or at the least acknowledging, his blood. Almost sadly, he replied, "One day, Thorongil. Not today."  
  
*****  
  
In a daze Faramir left his father's study. He remembered to shut the door behind him and to pull his cape and tunic both over the new welts, not at all wincing at the pain. He had come accustom to it now, and was numb all over. Tonight had been almost lax. Routine as this situation was, it never ceased to feel kin to betrayal. But who had betrayed whom?  
  
Fumbling his way through corridors, not knowing where he was headed, Faramir wondered. Had he betrayed his father, or had his father betrayed him? Was his nature a fault against his father, or was his father simply being unfair to blame him for something beyond his control? Was it beyond his control?  
  
Absorbed in thought, Faramir did not notice Thorongil, equally lost in meditation, until the two ran into each other, landing Faramir on the floor. The boy bit back at cry at the pain of his fall. "I am sorry, young Lord, I did not see you there. Are you all right?" Thorongil asked, sounding as though he truly cared one way or the other.  
  
"Just fine," Faramir managed. The man extended his hand and the boy took it, amazed as Thorongil hauled him to his feet.  
  
"All's right, then," he said. "How fare you on this night?" 'Not your place to ask!' a voice in Thorongil's head shouted. Nevertheless, he asked it. This child interested him. What would he say?  
  
"I fare well, Lord, as I said before. And yourself?" asked Faramir. What was going on? Why was this stranger asking him so many questions? Faramir sucked in a deep breath and began to count. 'Please let me disappear,' he begged to the higher powers.  
  
"Well. I have a letter for your father from the king of Rohan, know you where to find him?"  
  
"In Rohan, my lord," replied Faramir, not understanding.  
  
Thorongil laughed. "Your humour is appreciated, child, but I meant to ask where I might find your father."  
  
"Oh. . .oh!" Faramir felt himself blush. Here he had made a fool of himself in front of a visitor, and one his father seemed intent on disliking nonetheless. "In his study, would you like me to show you the way?" he asked, hoping to make amends. If word of this reached Father. . .!  
  
"Yes, that would be very helpful," Thorongil replied. "Thank you." He wished to better know the boy, Gandalf's scolding fresh in his mind. "Which direction?"  
  
"This way," Faramir said at once. He would be polite, but not make unneeded conversation. He led Thorongil along and hoped the older man would not ask questions. Questions were dangerous; Faramir was smart enough to know that.  
  
Thorongil took no offense by Faramir's manner. Instead he watched the boy's odd way of walking and noted the spots of blood seeping onto the fabric of the boy's cloak. Now night had fallen and no light came through the windows, when windows there were, but whenever the two passed through a circle of torch-cast light the deep red blotches were painfully apparent. 'Sweet Eru, does he realize? Does he not hurt?' Thorongil thought.  
  
"We are here, Lord Thorongil," Faramir said. "This is my father's study." Thorongil nodded.  
  
"Thank you, Lord Faramir." Thorongil smiled, trying to remember if he had kept leaves of Athelas in his pack. He hoped, and thought, that he had. "I look forward to knowing you better," he said, and meant this truly.  
  
"It has been a pleasure meeting you," Faramir replied. Both stood awkwardly for a moment. Faramir thought that the old man was prying into things not his business and hoped he would leave soon. Thorongil thought that Faramir was a only a boy, and had earned too many bruises for his few years. He should be abed at this late hour, feeling safe beneath the covers, mayhap fearing the monster beneath the bed. Perhaps Faramir felt some pity them or perhaps a part of him he was unfamiliar with was acting, for before leaving Thorongil he muttered, "Do not anger my father." Then he disappeared into the shadows.  
  
*****  
  
To be continued  
  
Galorin: Thank you. . .I do not like to give out spoilers, but I promise you knowledge where once ignorance reigned and Varda's blessing to tears.  
  
Daw the Minstrel: Interesting question. Denethor and Faramir know, of course, as well as Mithrandir and now Thorongil. As for who else, really no one knows, no.  
  
Elemmire2: Gandalf brought him to the White City to know his opinions. He would have been five years prior, when reassigned by Thengel, if I know my history rightly, but many changes can come about in five years. If you're wondering, you have only to ask.  
  
Radiion-Hobbitwarrior: Don't I know it! Gah! The two characters whose reputations have been completely ruined by that film are Elrond and Faramir. Both were kind people, but then Peter Jackson had to go and. . .argh! Mostly I respect his work, but this I cannot see the purpose of.  
  
Thanks to everyone who reviewed, I do enjoy hearing from you! 


	5. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof  
  
*****  
  
Thorongil knocked lightly before entering the room unnoticed, a shadow on shadows. For a moment he stood, blinking, as his eyes adjusted to the weak light. The door leading to the small balcony where Faramir earlier toyed with his small flute stood open, the air of the now-chill night pouring into the room in gusts. The boy himself, as Thorongil saw by the moonlight, lay on his stomach, blood gleaming on his bare back.  
  
Thorongil had not delivered Denethor's letter. Instead he had followed Faramir, kept a safe distance from the boy as they wound through corridors, then marked in his mind the place where the Steward's youngest son slept. Now he had returned to treat the wounds from which blood had stained Faramir's cloak and tunic.  
  
"Oh, child," he muttered. How could anyone do such a thing to their own offspring? "Faramir?" he asked, raising his voice a little. When the boy made no reply, Thorongil moved closer to the bed. Perhaps it was best if Faramir slept through this. Setting the supplies in his arms on the ground, he dipped a flannel cloth in a bowl of water and began dabbing at the blood covering Faramir's back. As flesh began to appear beneath blood, the boy stammered into waking.  
  
"What. . .who is that?" Faramir asked, confused. The world was slurred. "What are you doing?" Through his syrup-focus, he was aware of someone touching his back gently, not to harm him. What was happening? He was so muddled!  
  
"It is Thorongil," he replied honestly. "Faramir, if you will allow me, I would like to tend your wounds. They will heal more quickly with the right herbs."  
  
"No!" Faramir exclaimed, alarmed, turning to face Thorongil. What Thorongil did not know was that the dirty words Faramir had spent years denying, the utter hatred Denethor laid so plain, had broken the boy's spirits at last. Hours of contemplation reached to only one answer: Denethor told the truth. Faramir believed that he was indeed a useless, meaningless drain on his family. Help had come, but it had come too late. "No, you mustn't! He would be angry, and I deserve the hurts. Father punishes me because I am a bad boy."  
  
Thorongil's stomach contorted at these words, and he wanted to be sick. His voice was hardly more than a whisper as he said, "No, Faramir. No, you must not think such things."  
  
"If you make the hurt go away, I would not know right from wrong. Every father disciplines his son."  
  
Thorongil shook his head. "Not like this, Faramir. No father has the right to leave his son. . ." he realized in the nick of time that 'so mutilated', while it would finish his sentence properly, would not make Faramir feel any better. "So upset and in such pain," he finished at last, keeping Faramir without blame.  
  
Faramir thought on this. It did hurt an awful lot, not a dull ache but sharp darts of intense pain . . ."Perhaps if you helped the ouch go away just this once," he submitted.  
  
"Good choice," Thorongil said. "Lie down." Faramir did as he was asked, and Thorongil finished clearing away the blood, then, though he had not Athelas to help this child, did the most he could with the given wants. Faramir kept silent throughout, though he winced when a shockingly cold healing salve came into contact with an open and painful injury. "You poor boy," Thorongil muttered, quietly so that Faramir could not hear. He pitied the boy more than anything. To be so beaten and abused, and by someone so near to your heart nonetheless!  
  
"There," Thorongil whispered to Faramir. "I have done what I can. May Este complete this task." Faramir was again silent, and Thorongil left the room as quietly as he had come: naught but a whisper.  
  
In the corridor, Thorongil paused. Something felt wrong. Was someone here? Though he gazed about, Thorongil could see no one, and so, deeming himself safe, slipped away, back to the quarters where an angry wizard awaited him. "What in all of Iluvatar's realms have you been up to?" Gandalf asked. "The Steward is ill of temper."  
  
"I saw to his son," Thorongil replied, too tired and heavy of heart to lie.  
  
"As I feared you might," Gandalf replied with a calm nod. "So long as Faramir does not speak to Denethor of this, there is nothing to fear. But did you have to, Thorongil? This will il-pleased Denethor, should he hear of it. Ears and eyes are never where they are completely expected."  
  
In the corridor outside of Faramir's room, Boromir stepped into the torchlight. He had seen Thorongil leave earlier, had held his breath so that he made not a sound and the Ranger had not detected him, his mind on other things. Boromir did not trust Thorongil, and especially did not trust him not to hurt Faramir. What would a stiff, heartless old man know of the gentleness and tenderness of Faramir's young soul?  
  
With less caution Boromir entered his brother's room, light banishing the darkness in an immutable flood. Was Faramir not cold? Boromir shivered, then moved to close the door to the outside world and stop the night air entering the chambers. Faramir should have known better; he was prone to illness.  
  
Other than that open door, nothing seemed at all out of the ordinary. His suspicions calmed, Boromir moved to the bed, meaning to raise the coverlet of his brother. It was then that he noticed the weals and sores on Faramir's back. "My brother. . ." Boromir gasped. Then he had been correct all along! It was as he feared. "Oh, Faramir," Boromir lamented, "that you should take such pains. My brother, I will protect. He will never touch you again."  
  
*****  
  
To Be Continued  
  
Galorin: But Strider is moving within his boundaries, as you saw in this chapter. Perhaps he cannot take Faramir out of danger forever, not just yet, but he can give him hope.  
  
Joshua Nenya: Thanks. . .stories, actually. The "'s" indicates possession. (English is hard to learn, I know, but thought that might be helpful)  
  
Angel of Harlem: Between you and Denethor, my poor protagonist will not survive at all!  
  
Eowyn: Faramir's wrist was bruised by Denethor. The bruise is shaped as such to betray this. As for Boromir, you shall see. Mwu ha ha. I cannot believe you were unable to keep your mind out of the gutter for FOUR chapters! As you say, sigh. . .  
  
Author's note: Este heals, she is one of the Valar. When Thorongil says "May Este complete this task", he invokes the name of the goddess that she will heal Faramir to a degree he cannot achieve. 


	6. Chapter Six

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any recognizable characters and/or places thereof  
  
*****  
  
"I want you to leave Minas Tirith." Boromir could hardly believe the words were out of his mouth, but he felt liberated, powerful and proud to have said them. Clenching his fists, he gazed into the grey-blue eyes of his enemy, expecting fully to see anger, but he was met only with confusion. This did somewhat annoy him, the innocence of the look, but he endured this.  
  
"For what reason do you ask this?" Thorongil asked. Boromir was angry with him, any fool could see that. Why? What had he, Thorongil, done to offend Boromir? Racking his memories, Thorongil found nothing. Perhaps Boromir disliked recalling the earlier years, when Thorongil had been a captain of Minas Tirith twelve years ago. Those had not been dark days, but the death of Ecthelion had certainly colored Boromir's memories darkly.  
  
"For the safety of my family." Boromir practically spat the words in his anger.  
  
This only served to confuse Thorongil further. "What in all Middle-earth are you talking about?" The two met on even enough measures; Boromir requested a private word with Thorongil and, because he was the Steward's son and Thorongil a man of no such importance, this was done. They walked together along a corridor easily referred to as a portrait gallery, it was so heavily hung with likenesses of Stewards and Kings past. Boromir spoke lovingly yet without strong emotion of his forebears and of his country in general, too nervous to speak his mind until at last he lost control and spoke so bluntly.  
  
"I saw--" Boromir began, then realized his voice was raised and spoke in quieter tones, hardly whispering, "I saw my brother last night, after you left his bedchamber."  
  
And, all at once, Thorongil understood. The poor boy; Boromir must think Thorongil had caused such harm to his little brother! Certainly it must have looked as such! "Lord Boromir, I never harmed your brother."  
  
"Then how do you propose to explain the wounds?" Boromir shot back.  
  
Thorongil's face softened and he looked as though he understood Boromir's predicament. Kneeling, Thorongil placed his hand over his heart in a display of truth and met the younger man's eyes. "I know this is difficult for you, but it was not I who harmed young Lord Faramir, but someone much closer to his heart. And to yours."  
  
For a few moments Boromir stared uncomprehending into Thorongil's eyes, then his own orbs widened in understanding. "You do not know your place."  
  
"My Lord, I mean only to help your brother. Steward Denethor has the right to treat his sons as he will and I see in your eyes that Faramir receives a different treatment than you, that you do not believe my words. For your father's sake, you are inclined to cast aside my speech, I understand this. Think, Lord Boromir, for your brother for a moment. He is in danger." Thorongil saw a chance--a slim chance, but a chance nevertheless--and took it. "Help me, Lord Boromir. Help me take your brother out of harm's way."  
  
Boromir could hardly believe his ears. This strange man came into his city, hardly respected his father, harmed his brother, and asked Boromir's aid in kidnapping a young child, a noble child? Had he no sense? Boromir's anger was as easily quelled by Thorongil's words as the tides turned back for a man who shakes his fists in anger.  
  
"You remember me, Lord Boromir, I know you do. I was your captain, you remember this. You trusted me once. Trust me now, as you did those years ago," Thorongil appealed.  
  
"You were my captain," Boromir replied, "and you left." Old wounds reopened clearly upon his face.  
  
Thorongil once more saw that young boy, whose eyes had been forbidden from welling with tears. "I had no choice, aran-nin. Your father bid me leave; ordered me leave. I am sorry I had to abandon you; your grandfather's death must have been difficult. But you realize, Lord Boromir, that only with Lord Ecthelion dead could Lord Denethor expel me?"  
  
Boromir swallowed a lump in his throat. No, he willed himself, you must not! This is a time to be strong! "You will not poison me with your words!" Aware of their location, Boromir hissed at his companion, "Now be gone! You are lucky I am not going to tell my father of this, Thorongil! Be gone!" And Thorongil stood, towering over Boromir and striking fear into the heart of the Steward's eldest son, and bowed, and left.  
  
*****  
  
"We have to leave."  
  
With no further words, Thorongil angrily gathered the few things he had taken from his pack and shoved the items until the pack would close. Mithrandir observed, half-amused and very worried at his friend's anger. The old wizard saw that a protruding knife kept Thorongil's pack from closing, but he neglected to say this. At long last the Ranger discovered the knife, slipped it deeper into his pack and tied it closed. He turned to the wizard. "Why do you stand by in idle? Did you not hear me? We must leave this place!"  
  
"Thorongil, calm yourself. What is going on?" Mithrandir asked. It had been long since he had seen Thorongil so. . .angry? Frenzied? What exactly was Thorongil?  
  
"The Steward's son tells us we must leave. I said to you, Mithrandir, that he was as his father! Just as Denethor bid me leave so many years ago, Valar forbid I should corrupt his young child!"  
  
"Thorongil!" Mithrandir spoke as sharply as he could, deeming it necessary. And the rebuke did its job: Thorongil froze, looking at the wizard, waiting for what he next would say. More gently Mithrandir intoned, "You must calm yourself. You are beyond control. Is this about Boromir, Thorongil?"  
  
The Ranger sighed, and closed his eyes as if in thought, then sunk down upon the bed. He ran his hands over his face and gripped his hair tightly. The wizard sat beside the Ranger and waited. "Mithrandir, I apologize. Leaving Boromir was difficult, those years ago. Leaving Faramir. . .sweet Iluvatar. Boromir thinks I hurt his brother. He threatens to tell his father if we do not leave at once. I am sorry, my friend. You warned me against getting involved."  
  
"All the while knowing you would not heed me," Mithrandir replied kindly. "I knew your heart would lead you in another direction completely to the one I dictated. We can do nothing for Faramir, Thorongil, and never could we have, no matter your situation with his brother. We have no power here."  
  
"But someday!" Thorongil replied, lifting his head and meeting the wizened gaze of the old wizard. "Some day I will have power here. We must hold on to that day."  
  
Mithrandir nodded. "Your hold on that day is not strong, Thorongil. You must believe it will come. The hour now seems dark; it is not. There is hope yet, for Faramir and for you. Don't give up."  
  
Now it was Thorongil who nodded. "I have not lost hope," he stated firmly. "But we must leave this place. Boromir did not jest; I believe he will tell Denethor what he suspects if we are not gone very soon."  
  
In silence, but amicable and not at all worried silence despite the danger they were in, the wizard and the Ranger gathered their belongings, buckled on their swords, and prepared to depart. Mithrandir swept his eyes over the space they had so briefly occupied. "You have delivered the letter?" he asked, just to make certain.  
  
"Yes--no!" Thorongil realized. "I have not."  
  
Mithrandir nodded. "You deliver the letter now, and I will meet you in the stables."  
  
"All right." Thorongil nodded and was on his way. A part of him fluttered, a long-silent place deep inside, and he realized that he hoped for something to happen which was highly unlikely. He knew then that he still wished to aid Faramir, and it took his complete self-control to head straight for the Steward's study, where he would deliver his letter--then be gone.  
  
*****  
  
To be continued  
  
Alex: You're picking nits there, dear.  
  
Galorin: Thanks! Always a pleasure hearing from you. Yes, Boromir indeed believes that his brother has been beaten up by the Ranger.  
  
Gpup: Not really. It's what anyone would naturally assume in his position, and think of the loyalties involved. He's no evidence against Denethor, no reason to suspect him.  
  
Angel of Harlem: Definitely not Faramir!  
  
Joshua Nenya: Ah, but Boromir's help is. . .misdirected. As for English, I completely understand! Learning Spanish this year has opened my eyes to the awkwardness of the English language. 


	7. Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof  
  
*****  
  
Distracted by his thoughts, his wishes to help the Steward's young son and his anger at the loss of so many pleasant memories of young Boromir, Thorongil heard nothing as he approached the Steward's study: had he been more alert, his actions would have been much changed. For many yeas he would reflect on this, and wonder if things would have been better, or perhaps if they would have been worse, had he not been absorbed in his own mind.  
  
Within the study, Faramir struggled to stay conscious. There was blood all over him, blood matting his hair and leaving streaks on his face and staining his palms. Where did it come from? The boy wondered, did he bleed all of this blood? How did his hair come to be so saturated? Staggering, his chest heaving with every breath, Faramir tried not to look upon the imposing figure of the Steward of Denethor. "Father," he implored, "Father, please." The leather belt snapped across his back, and Faramir felt his head loll to the side. He fell to his knees, unable to stand any longer through weakness and pain.  
  
The child knew--for though this was an untruth, he held it for reality-- that he was wrong to plead. He was a weak child and Father was helping him, making him strong. If he was not such a bad boy, if he was more like Boromir, then Father would not have to go to such extents. Nevertheless, Faramir begged, for the pain overcame him.  
  
"Stand up, boy." The cold words hardly registered in Faramir's mind; his own death was upon him, what was one more futile command? Slow were the syllables in his head, and they pounded within his brain. "Stand up!" The shout brought Faramir back to his senses, and though hateful of himself he was human, and his nature fought to survive. Slowly, too slowly, Faramir sought to climb to his feet--he felt himself rising and realized by the pain that he was being hauled up by a handful of his hair. It hurt so badly that he could not help from crying out.  
  
The study held little furniture in it, only a desk covered with papers and the like. An large decanter rested empty on its side, a second sign to Faramir (the first being the severity of his current correction) that his father had imbibed. Two windows gave light to the chamber, but because these were set very high in the wall one might see a catch of the sky through them, but more difficult would it be to see in.  
  
"Father, please, stop!" Faramir raised his hands in a futile attempt to fight against his father. Fat tears rolled through the blood on his cheeks, and he saw Denethor open his mouth with an ugly reply, but he stopped and dropped his son to the ground as someone entered the room.  
  
Thorongil took in the scene at once: the battered child, the purple-faced Steward, the empty decanter. His heart caught in his throat: at that moment he wanted nothing more than to approach the Steward and smack him once, as hard as he could, and tell him to leave the poor boy alone! Thorongil collected himself and evaluated the best plan of action. Then he stepped over to the Steward's desk, keeping his eyes on the ground. "I bear this letter from the King of Rohan, my lord," he spoke clearly, "and beg your pardon at the early departure of myself and my companion, Mithrandir." Briefly he raised his eyes to meet the Steward's gaze, and as he turned and swept his eyes back to the ground he met the pathetic, imploring watch of young Faramir, and tears prickled his eyes, for he could do nothing to help the boy.  
  
When the door closed behind Thorongil, Faramir felt as though all hope had fled the room with him. Pain-fires in his back returned one thousand fold, and he closed his eyes, never intending to open them again.  
  
In the corridor, Thorongil looked up and saw Boromir approaching. In his raw emotional state, his anger got the better of him: "Are you pleased, my lord Boromir, that I am leaving? I asked your trust as once your captain and you were loath to grant it. See now! You may be short one brother for this reason!"  
  
Boromir, hardly expecting this, stared at the old Ranger in shock. If he had hurt Faramir again, Valar help him. . .But before Boromir could collect his thoughts enough to respond with more than an angry splutter, Thorongil walked sadly down the corridor. The son of a steward ran in the opposite direction, not after Thorongil but to speak to his father, to tell him: Father, Thorongil threatens Faramir. Surely Denethor would have him branded a criminal, executed if caught, certainly! A perversely pleased smile crossed Boromir's face, though some sadness registered within: he did remember Thorongil from those years ago, and not unkindly either. The older man had changed, and this was indeed a pity.  
  
When Boromir reached the Steward's study, he opened the door without speaking or knocking, so thorough was his anger. Yet the sight that greeted him misdirected this emotion, for there was Denethor, his face changing hues with anger or drink, and Faramir, more than beaten, more than bruised, not even conscious. Thorongil spoke the truth all along! Boromir's head was reeling. He wished for another explanation, but the scene before him was all too clear. Swallowing hard to keep from crying out, Boromir left the study, closing the door quietly behind him.  
  
*****  
  
To be continued  
  
Emerald Phoenix: Boromir did not know that Faramir had been beaten up before that one night in chapter five, so as far as he is concerned it's completely plausible that Thorongil should be the culprit.  
  
Diamond Took: Yes he is Aragorn!  
  
Embe Stryder: Faramir is twelve, Boromir is seventeen.  
  
Sorry for the short chapter. . .I may not get another up for a while, I've finals in a week, but after that I have eleven weeks off school, so there will be plenty of updates then! Review if you liked it, don't if you didn't. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof. I'm just having fun writing these stories, no profit is being made.  
  
*****  
  
Thorongil stiffened as the wind rustled the leaves around him, slithering like a snake through the grasses, leaving no trail. His face could not easily be read: he seemed displeased, or apprehensive, or perhaps worried. Perhaps he was even afraid, a little, but this is not likely, for though capable of fear he rarely experienced this emotion: such was the Ranger's mien. Something, though, stirred badly within him, for his eyes swept briefly across the field, then darted back and again across the walls of Minas Tirith.  
  
"He will come." Mithrandir held a more relaxed posture, though he too worried. What could be done? His was to wait and see; the wizard appreciated this. What he did not appreciate was Thorongil having made such a plan without consulting him.  
  
Success of this plan neared the value of necessity: for Faramir, it might well prove such. The alternate possibilities were many: these Thorongil was familiar with. Suppose the plan fell through? Suppose he and Mithrandir were betrayed, what then would become of them? Supposing. . .  
  
Then these musing were stopped by the sound of faint hoofbeats, and a horse appeared through a narrow gap in the great door to the First Circle of Minas Tirith. At a slow trot the horse approached, the bulky form of a rider atop it swaying a bit. Thorongil nodded, discerning the identities of the double riders. "You are correct in your trust of him, Gandalf."  
  
No more did they speak until Boromir called his horse to a halt beside Thorongil's, nose to tail. Faramir, whose body rested before his brother's, seemed in a deep sleep: his head lolled awkwardly and his eyes did not open. Without a word Boromir lifted his brother and passed the boy to Thorongil, awkwardly placing the child in the saddle ahead of the Ranger. "You have told him everything?" Thorongil asked. "Why does he sleeps?"  
  
"I. . ." Boromir wrestled with his conscious, and at last decided upon an untruth in place of a lie. "I have told him everything. Yours is his safekeeping now."  
  
"And safe shall he be kept, and out of harm's way," Thorongil promised, and for a moment he and Boromir met each other's gaze and silently a promise passed between them, until at last Boromir could take no more and was forced to look away.  
  
"Please look after him," Boromir whispered, and to Thorongil's surprise a tear slid down his cheek. "Please. He's a very special boy." Such was the society of Men, particularly that of Boromir's house, that the boy felt shame in this proclamation, as though loving his brother was an offense punishable by law and worthy of social exile. Yet what dwelled in his heart dwelled regardless of his wishes and want-nots, and would not be swayed.  
  
"Your brother will be safe with us," Thorongil promised. Boromir nodded, his face turned down. "Boromir. You are doing the right thing. There is no reason to be ashamed."  
  
Blinking away tears, Boromir stared into Thorongil's eyes angrily, as though boring a hole in the older man's skull. "I have broken the law of my father's kingdom. I am stealing and kidnapping. Do not tell me this is right. Take care of my brother." Boromir unfastened his cloak and draped the garment over his brother. "Now get out of here! You think we will fare any better caught at this?" With that he jerked at the reins and wheeled his horse around, setting off for the city at a decent canter.  
  
Thorongil watched the boy go, wishing he could have said the right thing, anything to make Boromir feel better. Another part of him wished the moon were not full, that the orb might cast a lesser light and they might easier slink into the shadows.  
  
"Let us take our leave of this place," Mithrandir said. "There is little time to waste."  
  
For the first time Thorongil found himself looking about at his surroundings, feeling watched by the trees and the grass blades and the quieted city, all shadows cast over with a silver blanket. Where were the hidden eyes? Why did no birds cry?  
  
"What ever you are seeking, unless it be your death, tarrying here will not aid you in finding it!" Gandalf commented irritably, a few paces ahead of Thorongil. Sighing, the man nudged his horse into a walk beside the wizard. Usually Gandalf treated him as an equal, this sudden chiding gave him the feeling of a child. Once Thorongil was even with him, Gandalf muttered to his horse, and broke into a canter. Thorongil was quick to imitate, holding Faramir steady to keep the boy from waking. Let him have his sleep, the Ranger thought, for as long as possible. Tomorrow will be a difficult day for him.  
  
Within Minas Tirith, Boromir did not allow himself to cry. He lifted Faramir's wooden flute and fingered it, knowing he would never have the skill to play it, and even if he did no, he would not dare disturb the instrument with his rough tunes. Something more than a boy had gone from the white city. A spirit had left, a gentle, loving spirit, a spirit which might now live that it was out of danger.  
  
Nevertheless, Boromir missed his brother. He felt awful, as a kidnapper. After all, he had chosen the place and time, he had asked for Thorongil's help, chosen to smuggle Faramir out of the city. He knew it all for the best. The head cannot meddle in the affairs of the heart, for in this area it knows nothing, and can know only nothing. Boromir's head told him that his actions had been just. His heart sought other things: ways in which Denethor had not been in the wrong. Though willing to defend Faramir, Boromir wished he had been able to do so without harming Denethor.  
  
"Oh, Faramir."  
  
Boromir held the flute tighter in his hands, shaking with a surge of anger. "How could you have done this, Faramir? Why did you not simply placate him? Why did you have to tear our family apart?" In a fit of rage Boromir found himself stronger than usual, and grasping the wooden flute too tightly he shattered it into a thousand little pieces. As the splinters lodged in his hands, he began to sob.  
  
"Faramir, I am so sorry," Boromir whispered, the pain having taken his anger all away. He sunk onto his brother's bed and began to pick the wood fragments from his fingers and palms. "I know you tried very hard, Faramir, I know he would not be appeased. Forgive me. You did not destroy our family." With a hiss Boromir drew one particularly large shard from his palm, then inspected the bloodied flesh. No fragments of wood remained.  
  
"I miss you so much, brother," Boromir confided, hiding his face in his hands as his shoulders heaved. "I miss you already. Brother, I love you." Tears are weakness, thought Boromir, recounting something his father often said to him and to Faramir, yet as the salty water of his eyes mixed with the red blood of his heart Boromir could not find the place within him to bring forth shame. He loved his brother, and already missed his brother. True were these things he said, and for once Boromir would not deny truth in favor of lies. "I will cry if I want to cry," he said through clenched teeth.  
  
For Boromir it was a moment of great significance, when the truth of his actions struck him. Truly he understood then that he had broken his father's laws and could be killed for it, that he might well never see his brother again, indeed had lost his most beloved companion to a practical stranger, and that while Faramir was gone Boromir was not, and his would be the duty to look after the truth and keep it safe, if hidden. Boromir regretted lying to Thorongil, and realized on reflection that the Ranger should know the truth, but this act could not be undone, and soon enough Thorongil would know. His now was the responsibility of finding the right lie to cover his innocence, and to look after Thorongil's reputation, if he could.  
  
Whose great joke was it, that doing what was right could prove so difficult?  
  
*****  
  
To be continued  
  
Lirenel: Thorongil left because he had no choice, he had been ordered to leave. Sometimes, though there are things we wish to do, we cannot do them. In Thorongil's instance, helping Faramir was not an option.  
  
Fire Pendant: Well, I cannot speak for Tolkien, however the reason's for Denethor's being so terrible in this story will be explored later on.  
  
Galorin: And thank YOU! You really do help me keep going. There's not much of a response I have to give you, just to let you know how much I appreciate your saying what it is I'm doing right and wrong.  
  
Author's note: I have seen Return of the King. . .and it is good! 


	9. Chapter Nine

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any recognizable characters and/or places thereof  
  
*****  
  
Mithrandir and Thorongil rode for many hours. Their horses' hooves flew from the ground through the night. The moon sunk lower, coming nearer the horizon. The sky tinged to a lighter of the midnight velvets, the deep, forever blue which rings before dawn. On they rode as navy turned to soft gray, as a cover of ash hanging just below the sky, impossible in that the sky is not a solid layer but a constant, expanding thing. Pinkness chanced a shy glance over the horizon, then began to climb. At last blue came, and with it the sun. Mithrandir and Thorongil rode.  
  
Faramir remained before Thorongil all this time, and he did not wake. His body lolled much at first, but Thorongil found the proper manner in which to move that Faramir would be jostled the least. It was much like music, he reflected, the association of a mourning tune with another, a pleasant melody with its harmony, flute to fiddle. So was motion.  
  
The sun continued to rise; Thorongil found himself gazing over his shoulder and at his shoulder to keep track of the time, worrying: were they being followed? By noon drops of sweat rolled down his back and the horses heaved, but they continued on. Two hours passed before the riders came to a halt along the banks of a stream jetting off of the Anduin.  
  
Thorongil paused, uncertain. He had been in a similar situation before, but in said circumstance he had been in Faramir's position. How now did he dismount while retaining a hold on the boy? "If you lift the child down, I will take him from you. Then you may dismount unburdened," said Mithrandir, who stood beside Thorongil's horse, his own mount standing by the stream.  
  
Gratefully, Thorongil gently hauled the body of Faramir off his horse and handed him to Mithrandir, then jumped from his horse. "Good horse," the Ranger said, slipping the saddle off the animal quickly and freeing the mare of her bridle. She did not begin to drink at once, as Thorongil expected: if she did not cool down, the water would only hurt her. "I'll tend you as you deserve later, my friend," he promised.  
  
"Thorongil," Mithrandir called, "your help may be necessary here."  
  
The Ranger strode over to the wizard, who had placed the body of Faramir on the ground. This first glimpse of Faramir in full sunlight startled the Ranger and angered him. The boy's lips showed the hard tissue of healing cuts. A welt ran from just above his lip and disappeared under his hair on Faramir's left cheek, and his right eye was swollen shut. His left eye remained lightly closed.  
  
"He will not waken," Mithrandir said to Thorongil. "I have shaken him and called his name; the child is not sleeping."  
  
"What shall we do?" Thorongil asked. "If he is not conscious, and we have not the athelas weed to aid him, how are we to waken him?"  
  
Mithrandir looked at his comrade and replied, "We must await his awakening, and hope it comes swiftly! In the meantime, let us see to his wounds."  
  
"This at least explains the look on Boromir's face at his words, 'I have told him everything.' You have told him, Boromir, and he has heard nothing." Thorongil knelt beside Mithrandir and Faramir and drew a knife from within his cloak. Careful to avoid the boy's skin, Thorongil cut away Faramir's tunic that they might have a look at his wounds.  
  
Mithrandir recovered first from the sight. "You poor, valiant child," he muttered. Faramir's chest and belly had been wrapped completely in bandages, but on their long ride some wounds had reopened and now blood soaked the bindings. These were cut away by Mithrandir as Thorongil shredded Faramir's tunic for new bandages.  
  
Beneath the linen strips, Faramir's body was covered in scars and welts. Some oozed blood still, other simply were, huge purple, black and red marks on the boy's skin. One thin line had cracked open the boy's right nipple, and this bled slowly. The thing was a horror to behold, but neither of the aged onlookers drew away.  
  
"Let us clean the wounds," Thorongil said, "then we will bind them once more."  
  
This they did, taking cares as they dabbed wet cloths on the bloodied areas, then carefully dried Faramir's wounds. He remained a painful sight to behold, but not as awful as before. Now using Boromir's cloak to keep the dirt away they turned Faramir onto his back and the wounds here were cleaned, also, and dried before Mithrandir and Thorongil wrapped Faramir with their makeshift bandages.  
  
"We will need aid before we reach Imladris," Thorongil said with a wary look towards Faramir.  
  
"Who can we trust? Even Lord Elrond is but a hoped ally in this quest you have undertaken, Thorongil." Mithrandir's words held truth in them, and though Thorongil was angered it was not at Mithrandir. Instead, his anger was with Denethor, for hurting Faramir and for placing them in such a predicament, and with himself for an inability to remain uninvolved.  
  
"Then we ride for Rivendell," Thorongil decreed. "We ride hard and fast."  
  
Mithrandir looked at him, scrutinized the Ranger, then said, "Even horses of Rohan cannot take such great speeds; it is nearly two hundred leagues to Imladris. You must be reasonable."  
  
"Mithrandir, I have kidnapped a steward's son and become an outlaw in what is rightfully my own country. And you say be reasonable? Let us travel ten leagues in a day, these are Rohirrim horses and will manage it. At this pace it will be no more than twenty days to Imladris. Faramir is strong. He will make the journey."  
  
"If he cannot? If the horses cannot, what then? You overestimate us, Thorongil."  
  
"We must flee before we are captured and killed; this I know for sure." Thorongil raised his voice, but nevertheless his tone remained below a whisper. "My father taught me that life is much akin to archery: one must aim high to hit a distant target, for if one aims directly for the target one's arrow will strike too low."  
  
Mithrandir looked at the man and saw something new in him: youth. Thorongil knew not his limitations, completely oblivious to "cannot" and his own inabilities. By this token every youth is capable of amazing feats, perhaps because of confidence and perhaps because of a lack of fear. Perhaps every adult undermines himself by a lack of faith, by believing he cannot. Thorongil believed he could, and so, quite likely, he could.  
  
"All right, Thorongil. We will do this."  
  
Thorongil smiled his thanks, then realized a new problem. "Faramir needs a tunic to wear," he said. "He cannot ride the distance half-naked." The two looked at one another, then Thorongil chose one of his own tunics and together they dressed the unconscious boy. Faramir looked to be drowning in the deep blue fabric, but it was better than nothing and so they allowed this condition to remain.  
  
The horses, having had their fill to drink, had wandered off to graze nearby. Mithrandir and Thorongil tacked the grudgingly obedient mounts, then led them back to collect Faramir.  
  
"You should take him now," Thorongil commented.  
  
Mithrandir nodded and was moving to lift the boy when Faramir seemed to move. It was a slight movement, just a twitch of the eye, but enough to cause wonder. The wizard, uncertain, asked quietly, "Faramir?"  
  
"Where. . .Mithrandir?" Grey eyes squinted through slitted lids as Faramir recognized the wizard, who smiled kindly. "What's going on?"  
  
*****  
  
Author's note: In relation to distances, remember, this is Middle-earth. In The Two Towers, Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn ran forty-five leagues in three days, which is nearly one hundred sixty miles. As for the Gondor to Imladris distance, I did my best there, and if it's terribly off feel free to correct, but please do so kindly. Flames are not appreciated.  
  
Galorin: I was never overly fond of Boromir in the books (actually, I'm a bit soft on the character Galadriel), but nevertheless I've tried to portray him accurately and am glad a Boromir-fan approves!  
  
Thank you to everyone who reviewed, I loved hearing from you all! Updates will hopefully be more often now I'm on break. 


	10. Chapter Ten

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof  
  
Author's note: If anyone has a problem with this story I invite them to take it up with me, preferably on a fairer ground (instant messaging or e- mail, perhaps), but if anyone has qualms I'm open to discussion, provided it is a discussion between equals.  
  
*****  
  
The fire flickered across the sleeping form of Faramir of Gondor. Two wizened old men sat by the fire, smoking their pipes in silence. Crickets played. An owl cried. The sleeping boy shifted and cried out as an injury was aggravated.  
  
"He will not make it to Imladris," Mithrandir said.  
  
Above the stars splattered across the nighttime sky, glistening and shining over the world. Thorongil sighed and glanced upwards, calmed by the presence of so many entities greater than himself. "We are not a day away," he answered. "He has made it so far, why should his strength fail him now?"  
  
"Because Faramir is no imbecile, Aragorn son of Arathorn. He knows we will seek to plant in fairer earth the roots we have ripped from the stone of Minas Tirith. He wants to go home."  
  
Thorongil answered, all the while knowing the truth, "He has spoken no such desire."  
  
Mithrandir raised one bushy eyebrow to this but said nothing. Faramir spoke little but slept often on their journey, occasionally Thorongil gave him a sleeping draught when the boy shouted or cried through dreams. Though Faramir never specifically expressed the want to return to Minas Tirith, he clearly had not adjusted to being away. But the journey had been a relatively short one, lacking in time enough for the boy to adjust at all.  
  
"You would send him back to his father, to his death?" Thorongil asked in response. "At least in Imladris he will be safe."  
  
"Yet unhappy."  
  
"Have you heard of my youth in Imladris? I cried every night for nearly a year. These things take time, and time is one thing we have. The Enemy--" Thorongil glanced at Faramir, who slept soundly, and lowered his voice, "the Enemy regains power, but we know this only on the basis of an Orc statistic. Until He shows greater foes--"  
  
Mithrandir interrupted, "Are you saying that to give young Faramir a happy childhood we ought wait until He comes knocking on our doors, Thorongil? Have you lost perspective so?"  
  
Without realizing it, the two had leaned in close to each other and lowered their voices to keep the conversation absolutely private. "No. I am saying that at the moment there is nothing much we can do, and Faramir may yet be so lucky as to grow up in a time of peace. His childhood is over."  
  
The wizard opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by a howl into the night. The two stood up at once and drew their swords, attentions split between the Orcs and the boy. "We should go," Thorongil said, "outrun them, keep the boy safe."  
  
But even as he said it he knew they could not make it in time; another howl split the air too close for comfort. "Is he under your potion?" Mithrandir asked.  
  
"No. Hold them off for a moment." Thorongil knelt beside Faramir and shook him. "Faramir, Faramir you must wake," he called softly. The boy blinked and squinted, signs at least that he no longer slept. "Listen, Faramir," Thorongil said, and Faramir paid attention although the words were slow and slurred to his ears. "There are orcs not a mile away. Can you climb?"  
  
"Climb?" Faramir did not understand.  
  
"Into that tree there," Thorongil specified, "for your own safety. Come on!" He half-helped, half-pulled the boy to his feet. Faramir stumbled over tot he tree, hardly aware of his surroundings. For the past. . .how many days had it been? Fifteen, perhaps? More?. . .he had been sleeping, and so accustomed his body not to moving about and his mind not to thinking.  
  
In fact, Faramir made a point of not thinking. He woke, ate, and slept, all without a conscious thought. This act could not be described by difficult so well as near impossible, for to focus on the act is of itself negating the act in the human search for reason that would know why one is not thinking. One must stop one's mind completely, as in killing: one can easily swing his sword through the neck of a foe, but when one thinks: 'I have killed a man' one is enchained and sickened by the act, and cannot do it again.  
  
But as thinking was required, Faramir funneled his thoughts to the tree, clasping this branch and hauling his feet up, the ground falling away below him. The clash of metal on metal reached his ears, but meant nothing until Faramir felt a heavy hand clasp his ankle. The boy gasped and clutched onto a thick branch as the foul creature below jerked on his ankle.  
  
"Faramir!" He was holding for all his worth onto the branch, his arms and cheek being scraped raw, and his stomach where his tunic had been pulled up by being yanked along the rough bark. He was weakened but not giving up; Faramir of Gondor was no stranger to pain!  
  
It was Thorongil who slew the Orc, realizing belatedly that the grip on Faramir's ankle would not relax in death. With all haste the Ranger grabbed the Orc's hand and pried open his fingers. The boy remained frozen, staring. "Faramir, go!" Thorongil shouted, snapping him out of the trance.  
  
Faramir realized what a coward he was, but nevertheless climbed higher. As swords clanged below Faramir hid his face in the treetrunk, wincing as the dull thudding sounds betrayed the falling of bodies. He remembered the old trick and held his breath, becoming invisible. "One," he whispered, his eyes squeezed shut, "two--" A thud interrupted Faramir, and he had to look.  
  
What he saw frightened him so that he buried his face and counted, "One-two- three-four-five-six-seven. . ."  
  
"Faramir? Faramir, are you all right up there?" The voice sounded worried but not rushed. Faramir tried to answer, but could manage only a squeak. "Faramir?"  
  
"I-I am all right," he called.  
  
"It's safe now, come down from there!"  
  
"All right."  
  
Faramir carefully picked his way down from the tree, choosing each foothold with great care. Having survived the Orc encounter, he had no wish to fall and break his neck now. The ground below him was littered with the bodies of Orcs in such multitude (a number increased by his fear) that Faramir wondered at the two men who had slain them.  
  
Now, Faramir was not an average boy, because of circumstance and because he was just plain smart. Whoever gave Faramir his mind gave him a mighty gift. Throughout the entire night, hiding in the tree, Faramir had not thought once about home, of his father or Boromir, or, indeed, about very much at all. He was master of his thoughts.  
  
But when he hopped the last few feet to the ground and saw Mithrandir tying a makeshift bandage around Thorongil's wrist, he felt. . .fond. This was not the usual fondness for Mithrandir, whom Faramir had many years known and trusted, but for, much to the boy's surprise, Thorongil. The rough Man had something to him, as difficult to detect as his sorrow and his contentment, but it was there. Faramir felt as though his heart was softening within his chest.  
  
"Are you hurt, Faramir?" Mithrandir asked as Thorongil cracked the bone in his wrist beneath the "bandage."  
  
"I am fine," he answered, forgetting or ignoring the scratches on his arms and stomach. Now fabric covered those areas, and his cheek, where it had been scraped, was not badly hurt. Pain could not penetrate the shock Faramir felt now, at the realization that he had grown -fond- of this Ranger.  
  
"Good. We will ride through the night," Thorongil answered. "This place is not safe, and if the horses will ride swiftly until dawn we may yet reach safety ere a new day comes."  
  
Mithrandir's sentiments for this plan were written all over his face, but he did not voice his objections. He helped Thorongil tend the horses and pack what had been unpack, though there was little of this. Faramir aided where he could. They did not speak; the stench of dead Orc and the threat of carrion birds propelled them, and the work was finished quickly.  
  
The stars showed no longer through the thick sky of clouds above their heads. This was given many ominous looks. "Let us hope we are not caught in the storm, for it does appear we ride into its heart," Mithrandir said, and the horses broke into a gallop. Faramir was jolted forward in surprise, then gained rhythm and promptly fell into a deep sleep.  
  
*****  
  
To be continued  
  
Lirenel: I considered that, also, but someone (I think it was Galadriel) said in Fellowship of the Ring that Aragorn had not been to Lothlorien forest in eight and thirty years.  
  
Galorin: Oh, but of course!  
  
Diamond Took: Denethor's reactions will be in this story but not for a while.  
  
Pendragon_Xanatos: Thorongil IS Aragorn. He fought for King Thengel of Rohan under that name, and was referred to Steward Ecthelion, so used the same name in Gondor.  
  
Thanks to everyone for reviewing! 


	11. Chapter Eleven

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof. (I have got one of those nifty action figures though!)  
  
*****  
  
Rain trickled in the small amount of space between skin and clothing, causing the two to chafe as they came into contact. Droplets plinked to the ground, rolling fat from leaves and splashing into puddles. Pellets fell fast from the sky to barrage the leafy canopy overhead.  
  
Thorongil was beginning to worry. Why had the border guards not stopped him yet? He was coming far too close to Imladris without being stopped for his comfort. Was his childhood home no longer safe? Not only did Thorongil worry for those he knew who dwelt with valley, but also for the safety of Faramir. Where else could he take the boy? He might try Mirkwood, but Thranduil's distrust would not be good for Faramir and, while he remained close friends with Legolas Greenleaf, Thorongil did not trust the elf to raise a boy. Lothlorien, also, was an option, but the Lady could be quite frightening. Perhaps if Arwen had returned to Lothlorien forest (to Thorongil's knowledge she had not) he might beg this of her as a favor.  
  
Mithrandir no longer traveled with them. He had taken his leave at the valley's crest. "You are safe now. Look after the boy, and yourself. I have urgent business which needs tending." What business? Thorongil had not asked, but he wondered if this concerned the necromancer (he remembered those whispered conversations when he was small and wished he did not now understand them) or perhaps that old friend, Bilbo, of whom Mithrandir was so fond.  
  
As for the boy, he had fallen to sleep and now to a deeper place. He remained alive and breathed evenly, but showed no signs of dreaming.  
  
Sighing, Thorongil shifted Faramir, for he had taken to carrying the boy. The path was wet from the rain and the horse's hooves, while certain, gave Thorongil less comfort than his own feet. The animal followed close behind. He had wrapped his cloak around Faramir to keep the boy drier and warmer, and now gritted his teeth to keep from shivering. He did not know that his lips had turned blue and the skin beneath his eyes, and probably would not have cared, had he known.  
  
"Halt!" Ah, there were the border guards. Thorongil sighed with deep relief. So the valley remained safe: at last some good news. In spite of the deadly arrows aimed at his head, the Ranger did not panic. "Hold your hands up," ordered a familiar voice in the common tongue.  
  
"I cannot," Thorongil answered, his voice strange for the cold shivers.  
  
The guards, two of them, exchanged glances. Thorongil looked for some glimmer in their eyes and found it in those of the guard on the left, who, as that on the right began to insist upon his earlier command, interrupted in Elvish, "Estel? Elladan, no, it is Estel!"  
  
Now Elladan, less trusted, squinted, and though his arrow remained aimed and nocked the string was less taut than before. "Is it really?"  
  
"There is no proof but my word," Thorongil answered, "but yes." Elrohir slung his bow over his shoulder and returned the arrow to the quiver he wore across his back. With sure movements, Elrohir held Thorongil's arm and pushed back his sleeve. A semi-circle of faded brown marks showed on his hand and, farther up, Elrohir noted that the lower bone of the Ranger's arm was stronger about two thirds of the way to his elbow.  
  
"Sweet Eru, Estel," Elrohir said, looking again at his little brother. Though no tears manifested themselves, the sight of Thorongil's face made Elrohir cry inside. He looked so. . .well, the elf had grown accustom to the tanned skin, the older and hardened eyes, but this shivering, this discoloration. . ."Oh, Estel."  
  
"Come, we will take you to Ada," Elladan said. "You will be all right. Let me carry that for you."  
  
Thorongil tightened his grip on Faramir. "No; you may not take him."  
  
"Him?" The elven twins looked and, for the first time, saw that this indeed was a boy, not some inanimate mass but a person. Curiosity bit at them but they ignored it, instead taking the reins of Thorongil's horse. "Well, your horse at the least will be seen to."  
  
Elrohir with Thorongil went into Imladris while Elladan remained on the guard. "Has everything been well here?" Thorongil asked.  
  
"Do not speak," Elrohir beseeched him. "In moments we will have you dry and warm, I promise. Here, take my cloak." But Thorongil would not, and so Elrohir struck a quick pace for the Hall of Healing by way of the stables. He handed off the horse to a stablehand he could not name and continued with the two Men.  
  
Inside the great building a fire burned in the hearth. No one was to be seen in the room. At first Thorongil stood with his teeth chattering in the sudden warmth, then he moves over to the fire and knelt. Laying Faramir gingerly on the floor, Thorongil pulled the soaking wet cloak off the boy. "He suffered grave hurts ere our journey began, and they are not healed much though many days we have ridden. I fear all this jostling about has hurt him more. There is a scratch on his cheek, new; it wants for cleaning. We have ridden many hours in the rain, from early yestereve. . .before even first watch had been settled the orcs found us and we fought them off but went hence from that place. . .it may have been twenty hours, it may have been more or less. I cannot be certain. The boy is weak, he. . .needs much aid. Lord Elrond I know can help him."  
  
"Indeed?" Elrohir turned to see his father in the doorway. Thorongil stood and bowed to him. "Who is it that seeks my aid?" asked the healer, striding meaningfully across the room to see the pathetic form of a boy at his hearth.  
  
Elrohir opened his mouth to answer but Thorongil spoke, "He is only a child. I know you have the mercy to help a child."  
  
It was then that Elrond, earlier distracted by matters of upon reflection small significance, looked into the eyes of this new arrival and saw to whom he spoke. "Estel!"  
  
"Please, he is not well," was all Thorongil said, motioning the child by the fire. "Will you help him?"  
  
"Of course." Elrond lifted the boy and Thorongil visibly moved to take him but stayed himself, surprised. When had he come so fond of Faramir, so protective of him? Certainly Elrond could be trusted. "For yourself, though you have not been here in many years, your old room is unchanged, surely you will find something there to wear, something dry, and--"  
  
"No."  
  
Elrond might have been annoyed at this but he paused and looked rather softly at Thorongil. "So stubborn as always, child?"  
  
"I want to be here when he wakes."  
  
Elrond nearly dropped the child in shock, then asked the question Elladan and Elrohir had bitten back: "Estel. . .he is not--yours?"  
  
"Nay, not of my blood! Yet untrusting; he knows you not and I would have him wake in the presence of one familiar to him. He knows me; let me stay by him."  
  
As a healer and a father Elrond knew that Thorongil needed rest and dry clothes as much as the boy did. He also knew that this stubborn one would not leave the side of the boy, if he did not wish to. "Very well. Elrohir, would you find something for Estel to wear?" Elrohir nodded, equally interested in his brother's health, and in moments the door slammed shut behind him. "You may stay, so long as you will wear dry clothing and have something to eat. You are unwell."  
  
"All right." Thorongil knew a deal when he heard one.  
  
"Drink this," Elrond added, handing him a cup of tea.  
  
Thorongil nodded. "Cheers." He tipped his head back and drained the contents in one gulp, then with Elrond he went to find a bed to place Faramir upon.  
  
"Where is he hurt? The cut on his cheek, is this all save illness?" Elrond asked.  
  
Thorongil closed his eyes. He did not wish to answer that question again. "Cut off his tunic," he made his reply. Curiously, Elrond did so. Being a healer he was accustom to the sight of injuries, and without reaction unwound the makeshift bandages. "These bandages, Estel, how old are they?"  
  
"A week, perhaps a little more," Thorongil answered. Off Elrond's surprised expression he said, "We only had so much to get by on."  
  
"These wounds hardly look so old as an hour," Elrond stated, and indeed this was true. The sight of the pale boy's frail chest was the same now as it had been all those many days ago, two weeks and some, when Mithrandir and Thorongil had run from Minas Tirith.  
  
"The riding may have irritated them," Thorongil suggested.  
  
Elrond nodded; he had his own ideas. "Bring me a cloth and a bowl of water. The first thing this child needs is a wash."  
  
"Do you say this of all your patients?" Thorongil asked, chuckling in spite of himself and sobering circumstance as he carried out the healer's orders.  
  
For a moment Elrond looked hard at Thorongil, then he said, "You seem to be feeling much better, but you are still shivering. Go and wait for Elrohir. You can come back when you are dry." Thorongil nodded, but his eyes strayed to Faramir. "I assure you, he will sleep. Can you answer all of my questions, when he is seen to?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Good. Then I suggest you take your rest, also. You do need it."  
  
Shooed and shoved out of the room, Thorongil made his way back to the entry chamber, where the fire continued to burn and Elrohir had pulled a chair up to the hearth. "I did wonder," the elf said, offering a stack of dry clothing. "There is a blanket there, also, if you wish to--" he winked "-- rest your eyes."  
  
Thorongil answered him with a wry snort of laughter, "Not likely." But the fire was warm and, in the dry clothing, he was awfully comfortable. A few seconds could not hurt. After all, the tea had been drugged.  
  
*****  
  
To be continued  
  
Author's note: the drugged tea, that's nothing ominous. It was just to get Thorongil to sleep for a bit.  
  
Rain: From your perspective this is so. However, from my perspective the "Our Father" is nothing more than a poem. I'm sorry if it offends you, that was not my intention at all.  
  
Emerald Phoenix: It is, however, a matter of politics, as will be explored next chapter.  
  
Galorin: I'm glad you think so about the prayer; truly, it seemed some great taboo I had not caught on to! People are so uptight about that, which seems to me nothing but closed-mindedness. That's actually quite dangerous, a large group of closed-minded people. Anyway, that's just my paranoia acting up again. Thanks for reviewing, always a pleasure hearing from you. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof  
  
*****  
  
Faramir awoke slowly. The warmth about him made him groggy even as he stood unsteadily. His flesh prickled at the sudden change in temperature. Fighting the temptation to return to the warm sheets from whence he was so recently gone, Faramir looked around at the sterile yet comfortable room. Where was he? And Mithrandir, Thorongil. . .where were they? Faramir tried to think back, but his memories seemed to cut off shortly after the Orc attack the previous night. Had it been the previous night? He did not know.  
  
Bandages covered his arms, as Faramir discovered in raising his hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. Those around his chest were also changed to clean linen. Ah! Faramir discovered the source of his cold: someone had taken his tunic, presumably in the interest of seeing to his wounds.  
  
Seeking someone, anyone although preferably Mithrandir or Thorongil, Faramir opened the door and found himself in a short corridor. Voices drifted from somewhere to his left. The first to speak, a gruff, low voice, Faramir recognized as Thorongil's, but tinged with foreign hues of despair and something Faramir could not identify that caused his heart to twitch. The second voice interrupted Thorongil, a higher voice but nevertheless low, and more even than Thorongil's but nevertheless pushing for its own purposes.  
  
Faramir paused. He knew it would be rude of him to eavesdrop, but his curiosity tugged quite forcefully.  
  
"You saw him. How can you turn out that boy when you have seen his injuries?" Thorongil asked.  
  
Ah. If they were discussing him, then Faramir thought that perhaps eavesdropping would be a justified wrong. With slow and calculated steps he made his way towards the voices, at last identifying their source and pausing again before the just-open door. He flattened himself against the wall and pricked up his ears to listen.  
  
"This is not a matter of morality, it is a matter of politics."  
  
"He would die at his father's hand if I took him back to Gondor. You know this by the severity of those wounds. Don't ask me to him back."  
  
"Of course. You would not; I know you would take him to Lady Galadriel or Legolas of Mirkwood. He needs to be taken home."  
  
"What he needs is someone to look after him, a place where he can learn who he is and be that person! What he needs is a home!" When Thorongil had finished this outburst a heavy silence hung in the air, as though a great giant held his breath. Faramir dared to press his eye to the crack between the door and the frame and saw Thorongil, his back to the door, and another man, who looked out of the window opposite the door. Glancing, Faramir saw a great many trees following a small meadow, all heavily under shadow.  
  
When Thorongil spoke again, Faramir recognized the foreign sound of pleading, and he winced. "In Imladris he will be safe. Faramir is a good boy, he's smart and sensitive, and if you let him stay he would become a man of whom any one whose heart beats within him would be proud."  
  
The man by the window shook his head. "No."  
  
Thorongil seemed to know the definite resolution of this proclamation: even Faramir could sense it. Nevertheless, the Ranger did not give up. Faramir wished he had. "Please," Thorongil said quietly. The man by the window stiffened at the sound, but he would not turn. Thorongil dropped to his knees. "Please look after him." Faramir gasped sharply. Stop, he willed Thorongil, do not do this! Not for me! "Father," Thorongil ventured, hardly able to keep his voice from breaking. "Ada?"  
  
"Stand up, Estel." With downcast eyes and a face aflame with shame Thorongil did. At last the man by the window turned, and Faramir saw a kind face, ageless and sad. He should have liked to look longer, but in the interest of remaining unseen drew away and went back to his post against the wall.  
  
"This boy means something to you. I can see that. But I will not risk the life of every man, woman and child in Imladris for his safety. We have not the strength to fight off this enemy. You must understand. His life is of value, but not of a greater value than that of all Imladris."  
  
"And mine was?" Thorongil's voice was strong again as he answered back, challenging. He raised his chin and met the eyes of the man with whom he argued, a gesture more meaningful than Faramir perceived. "That Enemy was of greater strength than Gondor." Greater strength than Gondor? Faramir's mind raced. Who could that have been? Rohan? "Take him in under an alias as you did me. Protect him. When he is a man, he will find his own path. You do not even need to nurture him. This is not another Estel, but a boy who-- " Thorongil stopped abruptly as the other man held up a hand to silence him.  
  
"It is strange that all my sons should bring to me the children they find in need. Faramir may remain in Imladris under alias, if this is indeed his will. But at the first word, at the merest whisper, of threat, I will send him back to Gondor."  
  
"You have made the right decision," Thorongil reassured him. Then, to the great surprise of Faramir, Thorongil turned and called to the corridor, "Come in, Faramir."  
  
Faramir shuffled into the room and closed the door carefully behind him. With his eyes locked on the floor, he bowed awkwardly, then stood with his back straight and his shoulders squared. "I'm sorry I was listening in," he said quietly.  
  
Thorongil raised an eyebrow, as if to say, "You see?" But he spoke nothing aloud, instead awaiting the words of his companion.  
  
"Of course it is nothing. Curiosity is the human condition is it not? However, do not make a habit of eavesdropping, if you please. You will be told everything in time. Now, I am sure the floor is not so interesting."  
  
Taking this cue, Faramir raised his eyes just enough to see again the companion of Thorongil. His lips formed a question, but he would not speak aloud. The man moved to brush Faramir's hair away from his face, an almost unconscious habit, and Faramir shied away from him. "What has been done to you, child?" he asked in a voice touched by horror.  
  
"Faramir, this is Elrond, Lord of Imladris. I am sure you heard enough to know the purpose of our discussion?"  
  
Faramir nodded. "He wants me to leave," he whispered. "It's all right. I can leave--"  
  
"Or you might stay," Elrond intervened. "If it is your wish, Faramir of Gondor, you may remain here in Imladris." Imladris! Though he had heard the word many times, Faramir did not register until that moment where he was. The legendary Imladris! "Under a different name you would be safe here. If you wish to return to Gondor, an escort will be arranged for you as soon as you are well enough to travel."  
  
Too confused to pass a judgment of his own, Faramir stammered, "What ever Thorongil thinks is best."  
  
Elrond shook his head. "This is a decision for _you_ to make." Faramir could not answer.  
  
"Well, how about this: you can stay in Imladris until you are healed as a trial, then if you wish to leave you may," Thorongil suggested. Faramir nodded. That idea did appeal to him. Thorongil looked to Elrond. "He can have my old room," he said.  
  
*****  
  
Later, Faramir lay awake and staring into the darkness in a room generally reserved for visitors. He wondered if he was a visitor himself. No one seemed to know. The hour had been late in which he had been introduced to Lord Elrond, and so a room had been appointed to Faramir swiftly. Thorongil's suggestion of his room had been turned down but not explained to a very confused Faramir.  
  
There came a knock at the door. "Faramir?" Thorongil called softly. He did not know if Faramir was awake or asleep and wished to grant him rest, if he was sleeping. "May I come in?"  
  
"Yes," Faramir called, and he pushed himself into a sitting position as Thorongil entered, briefly spilling light into the room from the corridor then extinguishing it as he closed the door.  
  
"I hope you are not afraid of the dark. If you are, the door might be left open. . ."  
  
"I'm not afraid," Faramir answered. Thorongil nodded, aware of Faramir's blindness in the dark, then moved to stand nearer the boy Faramir folded his legs closer to himself and moved towards the wall. "You can sit down if you like," he said quietly.  
  
"Thank you." Thorongil sat. Faramir heard a dull sound as something was set on the floor. "Elrond sends this--it's tea." He offered the cup to Faramir, who accepted it warily. "It will help you sleep."  
  
Faramir heard the catch in Thorongil's voice. "You are leaving, aren't you?" he asked.  
  
"Yes, I am; tomorrow when you wake I will be gone. That is, unless you would rather I stay. If you need, I will stay a day or two more."  
  
"Go," Faramir answered.  
  
"I will come back," Thorongil promised.  
  
"When?" Faramir asked him.  
  
"Well. . ." He thought on it a moment. "When is the day of your thirteenth year?" Thorongil asked.  
  
Faramir swallowed the lump in his throat. Why did he feel like crying? He hardly knew this man! "What is today?" he asked. Thorongil gave the date. "Then I am thirteen years in two weeks," Faramir answered.  
  
"In two weeks I will be here again," Thorongil promised. "My business is not much distant." Faramir said nothing and Thorongil said this, also, then the latter raised the item he had earlier set on the floor.  
  
Faramir's eyes lit up. "Do you play?" he asked, just able to make out the instrument by moonlight.  
  
"A little," Thorongil answered.  
  
"How did you learn? W-will you teach me?" Faramir stuttered in his excitement.  
  
Thorongil smiled. He enjoyed Faramir's happiness. "The Lady Galadriel taught me," he said. Faramir's breath caught in his throat. The Lady of the Golden Wood! He felt he had left behind his known world and entered a place made from the stuff of legends. "If you have a sense for music, you can teach yourself. When I am here, though, it would be my pleasure to help you in this endeavor. If you like, I will play you a song tonight."  
  
"I should think I would like that very much," Faramir answered eagerly.  
  
In response Thorongil ran a finger over the chords to check that they were well tuned, depressed the strings appropriately, and began, hardly aware of his own singing; "Yesterday a child came out to wander. . ."  
  
*****  
  
To be continued  
  
Author's note: I know they haven't Joni Mitchell in Middle-earth, but I'm not a songwriter myself and often use 'Circle Game' as a lullaby in my stories. Also, I did not know when Faramir's given birthday was and could not find it anywhere, so if anyone knows could you please tell me?  
  
Leggylover03:Ah, well, actually I have a somewhat different impression of their relationship. This is not to say that there is no love between them, but Estel is grown and Elrond respects that. They are going to be more distant but not unloving.  
  
Galorin: On two counts I envy you: that you have had exposure to farming and to rain. Lucky! It never rains here. Well, not often, at any rate.  
  
Emerald Phoenix: There's not going to be much I can do about the updates for a bit, as I'll be on holiday, but I'll do my best to make them a more common occurrence.  
  
Someone Very Important: Yay! My powers of description are up to snuff by your standards--and that's sure something!  
  
Queen of the Elven City: Faramir is twelve. People probably torture their favourite characters as an emotional outlet or as a manner of dealing with the darker aspects of life.  
  
Thanks to everyone who reviewed! 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

Author's note: When Faramir writes his sonnet, remember, he is twelve years old. It's not going to be a work of poetry. Also, Sindarin is written in English as I don't speak Sindarin and therefore cannot write in it.

*****

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows into the library. Lord Elrond sat at a table with a heavy tome before him and Faramir, who would have much preferred to sprawl on the ground and bask in the sun's rays, sat opposite Elrond and tried to be as quiet as possible. The two sat in an uncomfortable and awkward silence, but neither broke it.

Faramir felt someone watching him and looked up from the book he held. When caught staring Elrond smiled. Faramir forced himself to smile back before returning to his book. Silently he berated himself--another chance lost. Stop being such a coward! "Um, e-excuse me…Master Elrond." Aware of the shocked expression on Elrond's face, the boy continued, quickly as he dared, "I was wondering…that is, if I may ask, might I use a quill and paper? Everything that has happened in the past two weeks, I want to record it so I cannot forget." 

And so that he forgot to tell Thorongil nothing, but Faramir did not add this aloud. It seemed so odd that he should have grown more fond of Thorongil in the man's absence, but Faramir could think of little more than the fact that tomorrow he would be thirteen. He would be a man! So Thorongil must arrive today, he simply must.

Elrond recovered his shock for a smile. "You speak Sindarin?" he asked. "For all this time?"

"No, sir!" Faramir answered fervently. "I learned." He remembered when Thorongil spoke to Elrond, pleading, and what he said: "Faramir is a good boy, he's smart and sensitive, and if you let him stay he would become a man of whom any one whose heart beats within him would be proud." He had not known it, but Faramir would never forget those words.

In two weeks! Elrond was amazed. Though Faramir occasionally lapsed in his grammar and his accent needed work, his Sindarin was not unimpressive. "You have the advantage of learning a vernacular form of Sindarin. No one will ever know it for your second tongue."

"Vernacular?" Faramir tried the word carefully, letting his tongue find the syllables.

Elrond searched for the word in Westron and spoke it, and Faramir understood. "As for paper and quills, if you will come with me I have those things in my study." Faramir followed Elrond, trying his best to learn the ways of the twisting corridors. He remembered so many times being lost in his own home of Gondor, crying until at last Boromir or Finduilas, in early days, found him and reassured him.

Hearing his name used, Faramir blinked away the echoing sobs of his childhood. He looked at Elrond first, then at the object in the elven lord's hands. Then he sought to ask a question, but his mouth only moved without sound. "You will make use of this, I think," Elrond said, pushing the book further towards Faramir.

With shaking hands he took it and held it in his hands and looked it over. The leather covers were old but not cracking, clearly having been kept in a drawer. Embedded in the midnight colour were thin lines of silver to form a picture: a star with many points upon it, at the center of the back cover's lower edge. With reverence Faramir turned the yellow pages, not turned yellow with age but this colour to begin with, thick and blank. He wanted badly to bring the book to his face and smell the musty leather and parchment but dared not.

"May I keep it?" Faramir asked, silently hoping against all hope that he would be allowed to. Elrond smiled and nodded, and Faramir felt his whole face light up. It was lucky that Elrond remembered to give him a quill and pot of ink, for Faramir's gratefulness overtook him and he had not the forwardness to ask.

Then Faramir went back to the room he had been inhabiting, which he had come to think of in the possessive, sat on the bed with his legs tucked beneath him, and wrote.

Day One

Today I met a lady in sunshine

Who gave to me a name and a smile

As though by the mercy of those divine

For I had been lost in the recent while.

Faramir a title then forbidden

A problematic monster's gaping maw:

Introductions, identity hidden!

Roan she called me, the colour she saw,

Oh, Valar, why oh why did I have to write that poem? I cannot believe I wrote that. Also I feel very bad for not finishing it, but cannot bear to waste the space further. This is what happened: I was walking in the gardens when I met a lady, who asked me my name and I did not know what to say. She called me Roan, saying that this is my colour, or what I remind her of. Now I have chosen a new name, and also have seemed to compile a number of nicknames: Roan is one nickname and the other Sunshine. Lady Arwen, who first called me Roan, will say often, "Good morning, Sunshine." But the name I have given myself is Etana. It means strength, and 

"Roan?" Faramir looked up to see Arwen standing in the doorway. "Forgive my entry, you left the door open."

Faramir nodded. For the first time in many hours he looked to the window and saw the sky darkening. On any other day this would have meant supper, always a welcome event--Faramir found himself eating quite a lot and constantly hungry of late. It embarrassed him, but no one else seemed to notice. And anyway, today the onset of evening only meant that Thorongil would not return to Imladris. Faramir would be a man before he had the chance to…to what? He wasn't sure.

"How are you, Roan?"

"All right," Faramir answered, closing the book and picking at a hole in his sock. He felt too saddened to act joyful.

"Rumor has it visitors have just arrived in Imladris." Arwen waited. When Faramir did not catch on, she added, "Perhaps you are waiting for someone?"

At this Faramir sat up straight. "Thorongil is here?" he asked.

"Yes," Arwen replied, "only just." Faramir leapt to his feet and began to run out of the room, then stopped. 

"Go on," she urged him. "He will be happy to see you. Go!" This was all he needed: Faramir burst into the corridor and turned a corner. When he came to the last straight of hall before passing out of doors, he stopped and slid off the friction his socks created against the floor.

Faramir's slide ended when the door failed to move out of his path and he smacked right into it. But no matter! In moments he was on his feet again, dashing outdoors and through the mud--for it had rained much recently--not caring that he managed to splatter the stuff all over his legs. He had a very human run, his knees forming circles as he moved them.

Then, just as he was readying himself to admit failure, Faramir saw the visitor Arwen spoke of; not only Thorongil was come, but Mithrandir also! They stood by the stables, not far, talking with someone Faramir did not know. Though surely coincidence, Faramir felt his heart might burst with happiness. Or, if this did not come to pass, with speed.

The most astounding thing happened then. Faramir had every intention of hugging everyone very much (somehow this seemed appropriate in Imladris as it never truly had in Gondor) but, because he was running, he had enough momentum that Thorongil managed to catch him and spin him in the air. Faramir thought of a bird.

"Why did you do that?" Faramir asked when he was back on the ground.

"Ah…I do not know. My brothers used to do that to me when I was small, I did not think. You have my sincerest apologies."

"That's all right," Faramir said. "I think I might have liked that."

They smiled. Then the stranger made a comment in Elvish, likely not intended for Faramir to understand, "This is the friend you wanted me to meet?"

"Three guesses!" Thorongil shot back sarcastically.

"I am your friend?" Faramir asked.

Now Mithrandir laughed. "It would seem you have both underestimated Faramir. Let us hope you never meet him in battle, for neither of you should come out again!"

"That is no longer my name," Faramir said quietly, taken by a spell of shyness.

"It isn't? Why not?" the wizard wanted to know.

"Because," Faramir said, "it was thought that I should be safer under another name. They call me Etana."

"Etana, is it? It suits."

Faramir smiled at the wizard's approval.

"Let us come inside then, Etana, for I have no need of two sick men."

"Two?" Faramir asked. He looked to Thorongil, who smiled in a laughing sort of way and followed the wizard. Faramir asked him quietly, "Who is he?"

Thorongil blinked in confusion, then followed Faramir's gaze. "He is a friend from Mirkwood, whose name is Legolas." They fell into silence, then Thorongil said, "You learned Sindarin very quickly." Faramir blushed. "How do you like it here, after two weeks?"

Faramir could think of nothing to say, as though his mind were a slate suddenly wiped clean of chalkdust. "I…Everyone is very nice here," he answered without answering the question asked of him. Then, in a lower tone, he confided, "It is amazing! There are two elves who look as though they are one!" Thorongil smiled, knowing who he meant. "But it all feels so temporary."

"How?"

"Well, just that…" Faramir brushed the hair out of his eyes and scratched behind his ears nervously. "Like a giant breath being held…and everyone waiting, just waiting to know what is going to happen, no one daring breathe…and they're all waiting for me, I know it. I have to decide now, don't I? And I am so afraid that no matter what I say it will be wrong…" He felt the tears in his eyes and bit his lip to keep them back.

Thorongil watch Faramir for a moment with interest, then he spoke quickly to Legolas in Quenya, saying, "Give us a moment, please?" With a brief nod Legolas hurried away from them.

For a moment the two stood awkwardly in the falling darkness, their breath forming white clouds in front of them. Faramir felt his inside curling into a ball and wished to do the same himself, feeling watched, feeling bad. With a heavy sorrow in his eyes Thorongil knelt before Faramir. Faramir wanted to speak, he wanted to...he was unsure of what he wanted. To apologize, perhaps? Thorongil placed his palm over Faramir's heart and quietly he said, "Follow your heart, Faramir. It will not lead you astray."

Then the tears did come, and Faramir allowed Thorongil to hold him while he cried, though he tried very hard to staunch the flow. "I want to stay here, Thorongil, I truly do, but I don't want to hurt anybody. They are all such good people, I should not inflict myself upon them."

"Faramir--"

"I know," he sobbed quietly, "I mustn't say that."

"No, you may say whatever you think. You must speak the truth. However, you are a lovely person and the people here, they want to help you."

Faramir drew away then and held his elbows cupped in his palms. "How would you know?" he asked.

"They looked after me when I was small," he answered. "This is my home and they are my family. I want to share that with you. That is what I was taught here."

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Faramir spoke slowly, "But I…"

"You do not have to decide yet," Thorongil told him, and Faramir smiled. "Are you ready to go inside? It is cold out."

Thorongil stood and Faramir took his hand, then jumped away, unsure of why he had done that. "I-I am sorry…" Thorongil offered his hand and smiled. "You know, I am Etana here."

"Yes, and I am Estel. But you _are_ Faramir of Gondor no matter where you go."

"Lady Arwen calls me Roan," he said for no reason at all.

Thorongil nodded. "Yes, Arwen is like that sometimes."

Faramir asked him what she was like, and Thorongil answered that she was like nothing else. "Do you fancy her?" Faramir asked.

"Do I…honestly, Faramir!" Thorongil looked up contemplatively. "It is going to snow soon," he commented.

"You did not answer my question."

*

Faramir closed his eyes and lost himself in the noise of conversation buzzing about him. Everyone seemed so familiar, falling into a step they had invented themselves. The twins, whom he often thought of as a single being, their sister Arwen, Thorongil (who they called Estel), Legolas and Elrond seemed to be a family never apart, in spite of species differences. They all joked and laughed and threw things at each other--well, Elrond did not throw anything, but he smiled tolerantly at such missiles.

When Faramir opened his eyes, he was no longer sitting at the table with the others but lying on his back in bed, staring up at the ceiling. With a happy sigh he shifted and closed his eyes again, ready to sleep.

Some corridors away, in Elrond's study, the elven lord himself sighed--but not happily. "I need you here to look after him," he said. "Etana looks after himself well enough, but he dislikes coming to table and he refuses to bathe. He will not allow anyone to touch him, but he lets you swing him about so he must trust you. Although the boy is living I doubt he thinks at all of his home, and if he banishes this from his memory…"

"I know, I know," answered Thorongil. "I will do my best for him, Elrond. Nothing short of it." Elrond did not need to look to see the dedication in Thorongil's eyes: it was clear enough in his voice. Nevertheless Elrond did look into Thorongil's eyes, and sadly noted that all of his sons had grown up.

*****

To be continued


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof  
  
Author's note: I am so terribly sorry this took so long! My beta-reader had it for a month before I just looked it through myself. If there are any errors, by the way, please let me know.  
  
****  
  
Faramir awoke shivering, curled into a ball to keep out the cold, and he wondered momentarily if this was some crazy punishment, and if so what he had done, for he had tried so hard to be good! Then he opened his eyes and two things happened at once: Faramir heard merry laughter from out of doors, and he saw the blue coverlet upon which he had fallen asleep.  
  
He stood up, curiosity getting the better of him, though he recalled curiosity earning him a painful beating once and again, and went to the window. It seemed all the world shrouded in a great white mist, until Faramir unlatched the window and pushed it open. Cold air gushed in through the opening, bringing with it the sounds of merriment more loudly. Faramir peered out and saw four figures, three dark-haired and one blonde. After a moment he knew them: Elladan and Elrohir, though he knew not one from the other, Thorongil and Legolas. They were playing, as close as Faramir could tell, knocking each other over and stuffing handfuls of snow down each other's tunics and, not very nicely, trousers.  
  
And words discernible amongst the laughter, "Ai! That was not very kind, Estel!"  
  
"Not at all kind, but well deserved!" answered Thorongil. The elven twins shared a glanced and together knocked him to the ground. In spite of his loud protests, the greatest danger to Thorongil seemed laughing until he could not long breathe and losing consciousness for it!  
  
"Who ever said you two could maul my friend like that?" Legolas asked, bowling over one twin.  
  
At this point another head leaned from another window and accused them, "You boys will wake the dead with your noise!"  
  
The four answer as one, one twin pinning down Thorongil and the other being sat upon by Legolas, "Aw, but Ada!"  
  
Faramir knew that this had occurred more than once before. He feared for them, for Thorongil and the elven twins, for they had been very loud at such an early an hour that Elrond must be furious, and surely he had as strong an arm as a will! For this reason, feeling a terrible cowardice writhing in his belly, Faramir withdrew into the room and slipped from sleeping clothes to daytime attire. He had been given a number of castoffs, with apologies, as he had no other clothing of his own.  
  
Who wore this afore me, Faramir wondered. Whose clothing do I don now? Where has he gone? What did he do in these garments? But very quickly he checked these questions, reminding himself that he had yet to learn the result of lighting Lord Elrond's temper and had no longing to gain this knowledge.  
  
Later in the day, as Faramir attempted to put this experience into his book and felt increasingly frustrated with his inability to do so, he thought to himself, 'I do not suppose anyone knows it, but today I am ten and three years old. Does Thorongil remember?' And so he wrote into his book:  
  
"Today I am a man. Somehow I feel yet like a boy."  
  
"Roan."  
  
Faramir snapped shut the book and sat on it, then felt rather foolish as he met the eyes of his...what? Faramir considered: friend?  
  
"Elrond informs me," Thorongil continued, "that you have not had a bath in some two weeks since you arrived here."  
  
Still Faramir said nothing, only the muscles of his throat going tight to betray his fear.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Faramir shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, restored his vision and shook his head again.  
  
"You do not have to give your reason. But, Roan, you must bathe. It is a matter of hygiene, health and, well, smell."  
  
The boy mastered himself and nodded painfully. He went willingly to have this forced bath, though he spoke naught and seemed more a prisoner being led to his death. But as soon as Faramir saw the tub full of water he rebelled, and had not cast off any garment before retreating against the opposite wall. His eyes grew wide and he shook his head, though no one saw this act. As a wise lamb broke free from slaughter Faramir ran from the room, running for all he was worth as best he could with the ragged breath of fear.  
  
Faramir only stopped running when, his eyes hardly opened, he crashed into someone in the corridor who did not release him. "Calm down, child!" Elladan insisted, holding Faramir still as he would have Estel. "Hold yourself be!"  
  
In fear and to no avail Faramir flailed against the Elf, to Elladan's continued confusion. "Elladan!" Both froze and looked to Thorongil, looking in great surprise and alarm at them. "Leave him be." Elladan stepped back and Faramir, now quite afraid of him, ran to hide behind Thorongil. "No," said Thorongil quietly, "I shall not have that either."  
  
Faramir looked up at him with all the defiance he dared. "I do not care what you do to me," he said quietly, "for I would sooner be beaten than drowned."  
  
Thorongil felt his features attempting to form an expression of horror and pity, and checked himself. It was Elladan who could not control himself, so shocked at this thing being implied of his brother and of the sincere fear in the voice of a small child! "You poor child," he whispered.  
  
"Roan." Thorongil knelt before Faramir, looking up to him rather than down. "No one will hurt while I am here. I promise."  
  
Faramir blinked away tears and swallowed the hot bile rising in his throat. "Do you know how it feels when you cannot breathe? Do you know how your lungs burn with a dry fire, that you drink water to quench the flames? I would rather earn my death with the skin stripped from my back than try again to swallow the water of a full tub of water and have it forced from me."  
  
Thorongil nodded. "Will you take a flannel and a bowl of water and wash yourself in that manner?" To this Faramir consented, and left Elladan and Thorongil to stand and look silently at one another.  
  
Elladan spoke first. "What ever has happened to that boy, Estel, it will take much time to heal! Let us hope he has the strength for it."  
  
Thorongil laughed bitterly. "Why do you think we call him Etana, Elladan? When he tells his story you will see that he, if any among us, has this strength. Though he cannot wield a sword, we are but fleas to his power."  
  
*  
  
Faramir stopped and tugged at his tunic--well, not his exactly, but one of the tunics he had been given. There had been numerous offers of new clothes but Faramir refused them. Somehow he liked the old things, new to him yet broken in at the same time. He thought of the story of his birth as Boromir often whispered to him when Faramir was frightened or upset.  
  
"It was early--too early, really, by two months, but Mother did not care what the healers told her. She knew her child and she knew that he was coming into this world whether they liked it or not! She told them so! Two days later, on the early hours before dawn, her time came. Her ladies dashed about like geese with their heads off, and Mother said so!"  
  
Sitting with a family not his, Faramir remembered how the tale progressed, "They kept telling her 'Push, push!' and Mother, she did just that, but it was hurting her and she was screaming. Her breath sent shivers through her whole body. Just as her strength failed, as Mother readied herself to request the dangerous surgery of the cutting of the infant from the womb, the sun began to rise. Watching the light-rays come over the horizon her strength returned and you, Faramir--you were born with the sun."  
  
"Etana? Roan?"  
  
"Where are you, Sunshine?" Arwen asked him, not teasing but sounding gleeful that she might have been. Faramir looked up at her, utterly confused as to why everyone was saying his name. "We were saying, congratulations. In the world of Men, you are a man today."  
  
Faramir blushed and nodded. "Thank you," he whispered.  
  
"Which among Elves," Legolas joked, "means you are old enough to drink."  
  
Thorongil shook his head and motioned for Legolas not to do this, but, misunderstanding, Legolas answered, "He is old enough, Estel."  
  
Faramir stared a long moment at the decanter in his hands. He felt every weal on his back ripping open, the fire shooting through his body. The time he hit his head on the table, his eyes clouded over...And he knew then, holding that evil in his hands, that he was capable of the same. His hands itched to form fists. Violence rose in his blood, a fearful defiance.  
  
"No!" He stood and threw the decanter with all his might. It shattered against the wall.  
  
One of the twins jumped to his feet. "What is wrong with you, child?" he asked. Faramir's heart raced with fear.  
  
"What is wrong with -you-!" Thorongil shot back, leaping to his feet.  
  
"Perchance this paranoiac child, Estel! Perchance this broken human you have brought into our home!"  
  
"Elrohir!" Mithrandir exclaimed. "I would remind you that, as the son of this house's lord--"  
  
"And I would remind -you-, Mithrandir, and you boys as well," spoke the first truly calm voice to enter the conversation, "that this is -my- house. Grown or no," now Elrond spoke to Elrohir and Thorongil, no longer Mithrandir, "this is my house and if you will not respect me as your father you will remember that I am lord here."  
  
The two sank back into their seats, glaring daggers at each other but keeping their mouths shut. Faramir remained standing. He was in for it now! Shaking with fear, he watched Elrond approach him and struggled to draw himself up to his full height.  
  
Elrond had never before hit a child and he never would. He had no qualms with lecturing nor assigning service hours, but to physically punish someone to young to fully understand, or to control himself...There were many ways to discipline a child without making him afraid. Elrond hugged Faramir. It was all he could think of to do for the trembling boy.  
  
At first Faramir did not understand. Then he knew, he remembered, and his muscles contracted with fear and memory. When Elrond drew away from Faramir, he said, "You are excused if you wish to be but otherwise encouraged to stay."  
  
Faramir turned and ran. The group left there was silent, anger and confusion boiling. Thorongil knelt to gather up the shards of the glass decanter. "Estel, don't--"  
  
He turned to look at Legolas, eyes flashing angrily. "Don't -what-? How do I know he will not be sorry, will not come back and clean up after himself? It is what I would have done and frankly, Legolas, I am less worried for my dignity than for his safety. Handling pieces of broken glass generally is -unsafe-!"  
  
Thorongil continued his task in silence. They all knew this division, and for individual reasons did not move to help him. Elrond and Mithrandir understood that this fight was not theirs to enter. Legolas and the twins wished to help their brother, or friend, but could no choose between him and this boy, who brought on this split and seemed, far as they knew, beyond the realms of sanity. The idea of abuse never occurred to them, by their own millenia-old ignorance.  
  
It was the most reserved, pleasant member of their group who moved to help their Estel: it was Arwen who pushed her chair back and knelt beside him. He looked up and smiled his thanks. She smiled in return. "I do not understand this, Estel, but I do trust you." Arwen swallowed her tears, for though her undertones spoke specifically of her brothers the meaning of her choice carried much heavier implications for her father. She hated making him cry, and knew she had done so, that even with dry eyes Elrond cried.  
  
What had not counted on any tears, nor did she notice them until they fell upon her hands. "Estel..."  
  
"It is only the pain," he mumbled, drawing attention to the cuts on his palms from the many glass fragments. "Here, it is done." He dropped the pieces of glass onto the table. "Good night."  
  
*  
  
"Faramir?"  
  
"Thorongil--" Faramir sat up and moved to rise, but before he could stand Thorongil was sitting on the ground beside the bed.  
  
"This is for you."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Um..." Suddenly he felt mightily stupid. "Food. And, and some papers you might...I thought you might be interested in."  
  
Faramir mumbled his thanks through a mouthful of food. For a while his chewing was the only sound in the room, then curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "Is he strong?"  
  
"Is who strong?"  
  
"Lord Elrond. I mean--I know why, and I deserve it, but I just want to know."  
  
"He is strong," Thorongil answered honestly, "but he is not going to hurt you."  
  
"But...he hugged me."  
  
"Of course he did. Whenever one of his children was frightened or upset he would hug them."  
  
"Are...are you...Is he your sire?"  
  
Thorongil considered. "In some ways. He raised me. My sire died when I was small." He told few people of this, but Faramir was different. Faramir was in Imladris to heal, and Thorongil had brought him, so he would tell him the truth if it was asked for. "Do you miss your father?"  
  
"No," Faramir answered over-quickly. He fell silent and drew deep within himself, to a place no pain could penetrate, then he continued, "Father...would hug me sometimes...tell me he was sorry...something had gotten into him, but it was gone, he wanted to make amends..." His voice caught, and he gasped out his next words, "It always hurt more after that. I believed him every time but he would be angry at me for causing him weakness. After I killed my mother, he..."  
  
Faramir grabbed his pillow and bit into it to keep from crying. He rocked back and forth, muttering to himself. "Faramir?" Thorongil asked, worried. "Faramir...may I sit beside you?"  
  
"Yes. Please."  
  
Thorongil sat beside the boy and prepared another question when Faramir dropped the pillow and latched onto Thorongil, clinging to him as though for life itself. After a few seconds Faramir jumped away with a gasp and a profuse apology. "Faramir, shh, breathe, child, it is all right." He moved to comfort Faramir, only to have the boy once again attach himself to Thorongil's side. "All right," he said, stroking Faramir's hair soothingly. "It is all right, Faramir."  
  
"Are they very angry? Elladan and Elrohir and Legolas? Are they angry with me?" Faramir asked, his voice muffled because his head was buried in Thorongil's tunic.  
  
"Actually, I think they may have been angry with me," Thorongil answered. Faramir knew anger and he had seen that someone, though he did not recall who, had had anger in their eyes. Had Thorongil said that no one was angry, Faramir would have known the lie. "You see, I--" Thorongil quickly invented a story, "early today, as I was walking through the gardens, I saw Lady Arwen but, because the sun was in my eyes, I mistook her for Elladan. She took that as something of an insult and the twins were angry with me for upsetting their sister."  
  
Faramir laughed. "I think they hate me."  
  
"They do not understand you," Thorongil answered honestly. "In Elven culture children are rare and are very precious. The way your father treated you...it is unheard of to them. They cannot understand you."  
  
Faramir backed away. "You should not speak of my father that way."  
  
"Faramir...he...what he did to you--"  
  
"I tried to learn how to play your guitar," Faramir interrupted, changing the subject quickly, "but it was difficult. Will you play a song? Please?"  
  
Thorongil submitted. He did not truly wish to discuss Denethor at the moment, either. "All right." Faramir had tried but not managed to keep the instrument in tune. Thorongil took a moment to tighten or loosen the strings, as the case varied, then thought for a moment. "I wrote this, but it has not been played for anyone else so..."  
  
Not sure what came next, Thorongil began his song:  
  
"I was standing by my window  
  
On a cold and cloudy day  
  
When I saw that hearse come rolling  
  
For to carry my mother away.  
  
"Will the circle be unbroken?  
  
By and by lord, by and by  
  
There's a better home awaiting  
  
In the sky, lord, in the sky..."  
  
By the time he finished Faramir was nearly asleep. Thorongil set the instrument by the bed and tucked the blankets around Faramir. He left the room very quietly.  
  
In the corridor, he sighed. If only the twins understood..."Elbereth watch over him," Thorongil whispered. "He has so many battles ahead."  
  
*****  
  
To be continued  
  
'Will The Circle Be Unbroken' is, of course, property of The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. There is a partner story to this chapter, 'And So Cold,' which is a conversation between Estel and Arwen.  
  
Thanks to everyone who reviewed, as always!  
  
Lirenel: Elrond meant that it would be a danger for Faramir to repress his memories of Denethor.  
  
Galorin: Ai, you give credit where none is due! It is not so difficult for me to write the actions and feelings of a child of twelve years, being only fourteen myself and so close to that number. If I write adults well, now that should be an accomplishment. Thanks, though. It is always a pleasure to read your reviews. 


	15. Chapter fifteen

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof  
  
*****  
  
Faramir sighed but would not allow the tears to come. "My earliest memory is of my mother dying," he said. "Everything seemed to get worse day by day after that." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly, shuddering. Remembering, he wanted to cry. The image of his mother, his beautiful mother, so weakened and frail, brought a painful ache to his heart.  
  
He remembered how cold her hands were. The thick hair on her head thinned. Though not a vain woman, Lady Finduilas had been beautiful. Had she not been her five-year-old son would not have known the difference. The one thing unchanged, even in death, were her eyes.  
  
Faramir, five years old, could be contained by no orders. He crept from his bed at night, feeling fear rise to choke him in his chest yet unable to stop. He had to see his mother, he had to see Mama once more before she went away. Boromir said that Mama would get better but Faramir knew better. Mama could not lift a glass of water to her lips. Her head lacked the strength to hold on to her hair. Mama had left her body behind, soon for good. Faramir understood that.  
  
The door was too heavy for Faramir. He pulled at the handle but without result. Red coloured the skin of his palms and sweat made them slip. As Faramir slipped back into the shadows, heading back to his room to weep, the door swung open!  
  
The little boy gasped and turned, watching first in surprise at his good fortune, then in hope, expecting Mama to come, then in fear as Father instead came from the chamber. Faramir knew he would be in big trouble if Father caught him wandering the halls at this hour. As the man passed, speaking to his valet in words Faramir could not understand yet which rang coldly from the walls, Faramir held his breath. If he managed ten seconds more, Father would be gone.  
  
One...two...  
  
Twenty--!  
  
Faramir had to do it. He breathed. In great fear and almost certain of the blow soon to land, he looked about--Father had gone! And, as if by some miracle, he had not closed the door to Mama's chamber. Faramir pulled the door open a few inches more and squeezed in.  
  
Faramir loved Mama's room. On the walls she had paintings and sketches of the sea and of Dol Amroth, her home. Two Faramir had drawn with bits of charcoal. Neither was particularly aesthetically pleasing, but Mama had placed them on her walls just the same. Faramir felt as though, in entering Mama's room, he had entered Dol Amroth itself. The flickering torchlight gave an eerie life to the sea in the paintings.  
  
"Mama!" He climbed up onto her bed and knelt at Mama's side. "Mama," Faramir whispered, touching her face with his chubby, sticky hands.  
  
He felt tears rising in his throat and knew, in that moment, that Mama had gone away now. Tears for her absence and for the pain of loving her tightened their grip. Then, another miracle, Mama opened her eyes! Her eyes rolled and found her son. Lovingly she stroked his cheek. "My baby," she whispered.  
  
"Mama!"  
  
She smiled. "You are growing up, my little boy. Soon you will be a man." Her smile warmed the boy's heart and his tears subsided.  
  
"You going away, Mama?" he asked brokenly.  
  
"Yes, my son. Yes, I am going away. Where I am going, I will live by the sea and every morning watch the swift sun rise over the water. It is a wonderful place..." she trailed off wistfully. "Do you understand, Faramir?"  
  
He nodded. "Yes, Mama."  
  
"I knew you would," she answered sadly. "You must look after your brother and your father, Faramir, when I am not here to do so. You are the strong one, my little warrior..."  
  
"I will, Mama. I love you Mama!"  
  
"Shh, my child, hush." Though her voice was weak, Mama's words soothed her little boy. "I am going to be very happy, and someday you will join me. We will be together. Every day we will walk on the sands and you will tell me all of your adventures. But you have a life ahead of you, my son, while I have one behind me."  
  
Faramir understood then. He understood that Mama really and truly was going away, and that where ever she was going she would be happy. Mama's eyes closed and her chest shuddered, and she did not breathe again.  
  
"Good night, Mama," Faramir whispered, and he kissed her cheek, and he did not cry.  
  
"Our condolences," Elrohir offered in a quiet voice, thinking Faramir's speech complete for his long pause. "We, too, have lost our mother."  
  
"When Father found me with Mama's body he hit me so hard my head spun. Often he had taken such action against me or my brother before, or so Boromir tells me, as is just punishment, but Mama always stopped him before he went too far. This time he smacked my head and shouted and shoved me from the room." Faramir took another deep breath. The twins wore identical horrified expressions.  
  
Why am I doing this? Faramir asked himself. He knew himself to be unready. Why did he tell his secrets to these strangers, whom he did not even like?  
  
Only minutes ago Faramir had been walking down the corridor, looking forward to spending a quiet, elusive afternoon in the library when he overheard an argument between Thorongil and Elladan and Elrohir. His intentions had not been to eavesdrop, but...  
  
"He is unwell, Estel."  
  
"Elladan, what do you expect me to do? He is a good person and a good boy and, if you don't like him, there is nothing I can do," Thorongil answered.  
  
"We do not feel Imladris is the right place for him."  
  
"You do not understand--"  
  
"We do, Estel. Truly we do, and we feel for him--"  
  
"Stop it." Thorongil's words were acrid, bitter, somehow unfitting for the man Faramir knew. "I do not have to justify this to you. Once you were my brothers. You had faith in me. Have that faith now! Trust me! I ask, but I will not beg."  
  
Faramir found that air refused to enter his lungs and tears stung at his eyes. 'Do not do this!' he wished to tell Thorongil. 'Do not forgo family for me, do not become what I am!'  
  
He knew no option but to speak up, for himself but in especial for Thorongil. Faramir had simply started talking...  
  
"I was a bad child," Faramir continued, "I never learned to sit quietly and not ask questions and I took better to womanly arts than manly. I often disrespected my father by not acting as he instructed and...my greatest crime: when my mother died I shed no tears for her."  
  
Faramir gripped his elbows against the pain with such strength that Thorongil, seeing this, rushed forward and, kneeling, took Faramir's hands in his. Faramir trembled and bit his lip. No one moved then, but Elladan turned to his brother and said quietly, "What a sick thing to do to a child."  
  
Faramir's head snapped up. He glared at Elladan with a rage even Faramir himself had not known he possessed. Then he leapt: Faramir leapt forward, his fists flying and his feet kicking and his teeth biting. He set into Elladan with every weapon his body held.  
  
Elrohir, who served the sole purpose of observing in this situation, worried for the child. Sometimes Elladan lost control of himself...Estel must have remembered, also, for he stood and pulled Faramir away, restraining his little foundling as best he could.  
  
"Let me go!" Faramir protested. "Let me go, let me down, let me hurt him I want to hurt him I want to kill him he can't talk about my father that way! Let me go!"  
  
As this went on Elladan hissed at Thorongil in Quenya, holding a hand beneath his bleeding nose, "You see, Estel? That is a sick child and you are thicker than an orc's skull not to see it!"  
  
"You are the orc here, Elladan, to give up on a child and be ready to leave him for dead!" Thorongil shot back, and at the same moment they condemned each other to the dungeons of Morgoth, Elladan in anger and Thorongil in angry defense of Faramir. Meanwhile, in all the pandemonium, Faramir ripped himself free of Thorongil's hold and again attacked Elladan.  
  
His shouts might have been far more hurtful, had Elladan very much cared about Faramir. "I hate you! I hope you die! I hate you so much!"  
  
"That's it!"  
  
By the time Thorongil shouted loudly enough to stop them both Elladan was fighting as viciously as Faramir and, surprisingly, winning only slowly. Thorongil strode forward and delivered a swift kick to Elladan's midsection, placing him out of action. He then lifted Faramir, still kicking and screaming, off Elladan and marched out of the room.  
  
Thorongil deposited Faramir in a tub of water.  
  
Faramir pushed his head out of the water and gasped, tears streaming down his face. His eyes grew wide and he shivered with an awful fear, watching Thorongil carefully.  
  
"Wash," Thorongil told Faramir, handing him a cake of soap. He left Faramir alone then, giving him what privacy he needed. In the corridor, Thorongil listened to Faramir's quiet, gasping sobs and his heart plummeted to the depths of a gaping abyss.  
  
"Estel. What you have done is very wrong, and I hope you realize that."  
  
Thorongil sighed, but dared not argue further. He was wet, angry, sorry and exhausted.  
  
Elrond frowned, unable to speak his disappointment. "Come," he said, and led Thorongil to his study. Much to Thorongil's surprise he found Elladan sitting in one corner of the room. Elrond noticed this, and said, "You, too, Estel. Have a seat."  
  
"Ada--"  
  
Elrond crossed his arms, and Thorongil sat.  
  
For an hour of silence Elrond sat at his desk and worked. Elladan and Thorongil sat quietly, also, causing only the noise of shifting positions to keep their legs from losing feeling. They thought each their own thoughts, Elladan wondering where his violence had stemmed from and Thorongil wondering how Faramir was and if Faramir could ever forgive him. Neither thought of the other, for though they sat not three yards away from each other they lived in separate worlds. It was Elrond who at last broke the silence.  
  
"Elladan," he said, "is there anything you wish to say to me or to your brother?"  
  
Elladan took a deep breath. He had been through this ritual before, though never with Estel. "I am sorry his life...Etana's life--" only Elladan and Elrohir still called Faramir 'Etana'; to the others he was Roan "--but I do not withdraw my comment. His father must have been sick to treat him in such a manner."  
  
Elrond waited and, when nothing more Elladan said, he asked, "Estel, is there anything you wish to say?"  
  
"I will not apologize for Roan," he said, "but I do apologize for the hurtful things I said to Elladan. That is all I have to say."  
  
"Elladan, have you anything further to add? Estel?"  
  
Thorongil considered. "I would like very much to be your brother, Elladan. In fact, I...do not know that I can do this without your support."  
  
Before Elladan answered an angry wizard interrupted them. Mithrandir stormed into the room, looked about and, finding his target, scolded him, "Have you any idea how frightened that poor child is? Honestly, Aragorn! Go and tell him to get out of that freezing bathtub and into dry clothing! You will make him ill with your absent-minded neglect."  
  
Thorongil started. "He has not...?"  
  
"Of course not, and he is very frightened," Mithrandir replied.  
  
Thorongil turned to Elrond to ask permission and, receiving a swift nod, left the room. When he saw Faramir he stopped and forced down the rising tears, for the boy sat, blue and shivering, clothed in soaking garments in the bath. "Oh, Faramir..." Thorongil took Faramir by the arms and forced him to stand, drew him from the bath and, silently thanking Mithrandir for leaving warm clothing and towels, stripped the boy and wrapped a towel around him.  
  
"I am so sorry, Faramir," Thorongil said, drying off the shivering child. "I'm so sorry."  
  
Tears ran down Faramir's cheeks, warming him, tears he knew not of but cried for a pain he could not endure. "It's very cold," Faramir said.  
  
"I know, I know it is."  
  
To his shame Faramir could not dress himself, so violent were his shivers. Thorongil helped him as unobtrusively as possible and without a word. Anything he said would make Faramir feel worse: Thorongil understood this. Thorongil also understood why Faramir seemed to shake with increased violence whenever skin brushed skin. 'He fears me,' Thorongil realized, 'he fears the monster of which I have become a part.'  
  
*  
  
Faramir kept shivering into the night as he lay in bed. His stomach growled: fear kept him from attending supper. Cold, hungry and frightened, Faramir dared not make a sound when he heard the hinges squeak and the door open and close. Footsteps, quietly, then the mattress depressed and someone touched his shoulder gently. Faramir shriveled within himself.  
  
"Shh, ne ar del. I will not hurt you, Sunshine."  
  
Arwen knew not what she did. She had mothered no children herself and, being youngest, comforted none. She knew at least what Thorongil, her Estel, had warned her of, which meant that she was stepping on his turf. "Would you like to come for a walk with me?"  
  
They walked in the gardens, crunching snow beneath their feet. "Let me know if you are cold," Arwen said.  
  
"Yes, lady," Faramir answered.  
  
She smiled, taking in the sweet, dewy smell of roses, snow and evergreens. Rogue red flowers persisted in growing through the cold months, sharp thorned and extremely difficult to eradicate. "Do you like the gardens of Imladris?" Arwen asked.  
  
"I...suppose so."  
  
"You did not see them until winter, did you?"  
  
"No, Lady."  
  
"Oh, they are beautiful in the spring." For a moment Arwen fell silent, then she said, "I never liked the gardens."  
  
Faramir wanted badly to know more, he wanted to look inside of this woman's head and know every thought, every feeling she had ever experienced. He wanted to know the most intimate details of her life. "No?" he asked.  
  
Arwen shook her head, cascades waving along her back as she laughed. "I loved the forest, to run and climb trees. What did you do, as a child, when you had leisure time?"  
  
His face coloured with shame. "I enjoyed reading, very much," Faramir whispered.  
  
"Did you love knowledge?" Arwen asked.  
  
"I did," he answered, "and I loved the stories. In history, you know, I always thought...it was like reading stories."  
  
She smiled. "My father experienced such things in his time, if you ask him I am sure he will tell you a tale."  
  
"Truly?" Faramir's face lit up and for a moment he even forgot his growling belly.  
  
"Truly. Especially if you meet Grandmother, as I hope you do; she knew Valinor."  
  
"Valinor!" Faramir hardly breathed the word! To hear tales of such a place! "Who...who is she?"  
  
"The Lady Galadriel."  
  
Awe quieted Faramir, and when again he spoke the two had taken many strides together. "What have you seen, Lady?"  
  
"I?" She laughed at this idea. "I have not lived many significant years, Sunshine. Battles none I know. Nay, it is my elders who tell wonderous tales. I have simply lived."  
  
"Sometime..." Faramir blushed. "Sometime I would like to hear of your life."  
  
Arwen understood what he was thinking, and she said, "Sometime I shall tell you."  
  
*****  
  
To be continued  
  
Translations:  
  
Ne ar del: Do not be afraid. (literally "be without horror") 


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof  
  
"Faramir."  
  
A rough hand on his shoulder shook the boy awake. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. It was early yet, the sky only gray in color, betraying an hour between midnight and dawn. The urgency of his tone more than anything alerted Faramir to Thorongil's intent. "Don't," Faramir whispered. He looked at the Ranger, clad in tree colors, ready to disappear into the foliage and out of Faramir's life for ever. "Don't go," he pleaded.  
  
Thorongil shook his head, shifting the shadows on his face. "I have to," he answered. "I came to bid you farewell, then I must be gone. There are reports of orc attacks to the north-west. I go to protect my people. Legolas and the twins will be gone also, and Mithrandir cannot stay. You will be safe here." Though his heart ached Thorongil refused to succumb to emotion. Pain was easier for him; he understood pain.  
  
"But you will come back," Faramir stated, half-asking, wide awake now.  
  
"As soon as possible," Thorongil promised. After a moment of awkward indecision he hugged Faramir briefly; in response Faramir threw himself against Thorongil as though the tighter he held the man the longer he would stay. "We will meet again," Thorongil swore, then he drew away and in moments was gone. For a long while Faramir sat numbly missing his...friend? mentor? He knew not the word for his relationship with Thorongil. Then Faramir rose quickly.  
  
Without dressing he left the cell and fled down the corridor, encountering no one at the early hour. Even when his feet touched the snow Faramir did not stop, but stood still and watched as Thorongil and the three elves rode out of Imladris with men Faramir did not know. When the last notes of their horses' hooves pounding the earth faded, Faramir turned and went back inside. Thorongil was gone.  
  
Faramir stood motionless for some moments, not knowing where to go. Would it be wrong of him to seek someone, anyone, if only for company? Was that not a selfish aim? At last Faramir decided that he would go to the chambers of Lady Arwen, and if she proved awake perhaps...perhaps he might aid her somehow. He did not want to be alone, not with that empty feeling in his gut.  
  
When he knocked on the door it swung open. Tentative, Faramir inched into the room. Only when he stood beside the woman and saw her form, still as sleep yet with eyes open, did he stop, and gasp. Tears sprang to Faramir's eyes. Only once before had he seen eyes so wide yet so unseeing. 'Ai, I am a curséd, terrible boy!' he thought. 'She is dead...she is gone, just like Mama!'  
  
He fled the room, tears springing to his eyes. 'I must leave,' Faramir thought. 'I cannot stay here, not after...not after causing another death...not after driving the others away.' He looked about the cell, staring at the unmade bed. No sign of life pervaded the room save this. Faramir went to pack, meaning to leave Imladris as son as possible. He lifted a tunic, then quickly replaced it. 'I never owned this; I borrowed it, only. I...own nothing.'  
  
Biting his cheeks to keep from crying, Faramir sought the most worn of the garments given him, lent in his opinion, and dressed, for his nightclothes would not suffice on the journey back to Gondor. Then he moved over to the bed and clumsily straightened the coverlet. Satisfied with his work, he turned to look once more at the cell.  
  
When his eyes set upon the instrument left unobtrusively in the corner, Faramir could take no more. He sank to the bed in tears, buried his face in his hand and tried very hard to awaken no one with his sobs as he gulped in air. Nothing could stop the flow of tears, though he attempted vainly.  
  
"Roan..." Elrond mentally swore at himself. Four children he now considered adults and people of high moral quality had at one time or another looked to him for guidance. Why, then, could he do nothing for this child? Asking 'what's wrong' would be futile, as Faramir hardly trusted him. Hug him? Frightening the child would do no good. Instead Elrond swallowed his pride and knelt before Faramir. "I would help you, Roan, but you have to tell me what to do."  
  
Faramir burned with shame. "I'm sorry," he managed to croak through sobs. "I...Lady Arwen is..." Lost, Faramir simply cried and shook his head.  
  
"All right." Elrond stood. As if an afterthought, he placed a hand on Faramir's shoulder. "Just focus on breathing, little one. I will bring Arwen to speak with you, all right?" He sensed that a man could not comfort the child as a woman could, perhaps because no woman had ever mistreated him as a man had.  
  
The moment he was alone, Faramir leapt to his feet. Elrond would know in only moments--he would see Arwen and know what evils Faramir wrought. He jammed his feet into his worn leather boots, his one reminder of Gondor and the only possession truly his, fumbling with cold fingers and tear-blurred vision to tie the laces.  
  
"Faramir is a good boy, he's smart and sensitive, and if you let him stay he would become a man of whom any one whose heart beats within him would be proud." The words echoed in Faramir's mind as he paused, one hand on the cloak gifted him by Boromir. He had not addressed more difficult issues by simply not thinking about them; now Faramir realized that he would abandon Thorongil as he had Boromir: without saying good-bye. Tears sprang to his eyes as a whimper escaped his lips: "Boromir..."  
  
He crumpled to the ground, unable to stand. "Why now?" he whispered pathetically. "Why can I not leave? I don't want to hurt anyone else, I don't..." He tried to understand, but words flitted just beyond the reach of his mind as stars tumbled from his eyes. Uncertain, Faramir took Elrond's advice and focused on breathing. His lungs filled with oxygen; he held his breath and exhaled. Losing himself in repetition and the simple, natural process proved easy enough for Faramir.  
  
Arwen arrived to find him staring into the distance, tears falling without hysteria. Faramir sat with his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs, looking by all appearances like a dead man. "Roan." She touched his shoulder gently. When Faramir raised his head, his eyes were wide in disbelief.  
  
"Lady...?"  
  
"Good morrow, Sunshine," she said.  
  
"Lady!" Faramir jolted forward and threw his arms around her. For a long moment they sat together, Faramir holding Arwen to know that she was there, not dead at all, warm and breathing. Arwen held the boy gently, offering what comfort she could.

* * *

"He is regressing." Arwen pushed her knuckles deep into the dough, rolling the moist stuff beneath her hands to the heels of her palms. She did not have to bake bread: indeed, most would have expected the Evenstar never to clean plates or bake, but to sit about at ladylike tasks all day. Those who thought this knew not what a ladylike task was, but supposed that a Lady knew. Slamming a fist hard into the dough, Arwen nearly laughed at the thought of these people. She enjoyed working, hated acting the layabout.  
  
Without pausing her rhythmic motions, she looked to her father. His face was stern but unreadable. Arwen guessed his thoughts, knowing him well. "You ought not be so worried at the time I spend with him. He is not Estel."  
  
"Think you that I do not know this?"  
  
Elrond paused, amazed at his sudden flare of temper, but Arwen only laughed, a fluttering, teasing sound. "You must hate how straight my arrows fly," she commented. Elrond said nothing, but turned his head away. He did not leave, but remained in the doorway, watching his daughter fold and compress dough for bread, lying her smile. His mind wandered to Celebrían, to Arwen, to Elwing his mother...everyone he had lost.  
  
"What do you seek to be to this boy?" Elrond challenged his daughter. "Will you be his sister, his protector? Valar forbid, will you be his mother?" He asked the last as though the idea was preposterous, that Arwen could not possibly raise a broken child like Faramir.  
  
Seething inwardly, Arwen pounded the dough. Slowly she took her hands away and approached her father. Setting her jaw stubbornly, she demanded, "Why should I not? He cannot look after himself, and I doubt you would savor the task."  
  
"You should not have to look after him. He is not your responsibility. You did not bring him here." Even as he said this Elrond knew how thin the argument was. He would not have accepted it, and he knew Arwen would not. He only asked to know her answer, and to try because he could not admit defeat.  
  
"Estel is responsible for him. And if Estel is to be his ada, as anyone can see in Sunshine's eyes no one else may be, then who shall act as nana to him?" Arwen drew a deep breath. She knew the pain she had inflicted with her words and regretted it, but refused to withdraw her statement.  
  
Elrond nodded slowly. So his youngest child had grown up. He knew that, had known for many years, yet again and again he kidded himself that she remained a child. At the same moment father and daughter heard a muffled sob imperceptible to human ears: Faramir was crying. For a moment Elrond was drawn back nearly fifty years, when another boy awoke from dark dreams at late hours.  
  
Arwen looked to her father in apology, drawing him from his reverie. She hated to leave the conversation unfinished, as did he. "Go to him," Elrond said. He knew not to which "him" he released the last of his children.  
  
To be continued  
  
And now for healing Sunshine...  
  
Thanks to everyone who reviewed, I always love hearing from you!  
  
Lord Elrond of Hogwarts: But consider how Faramir is hearing this. Hearing his father spoken ill of is a considerable offense. That being said, I also agree with Elladan.  
  
Midgette: Nor did I, a year ago! The more you write, and read, the better you get. If you'd like any help, I'd be glad to oblige. Don't stop writing!  
  
You guys keep commenting on Arwen. If you want to check out where she's coming from, I've an Arwen story entitled 'Daisy Chain.' (all right, enough shameless self-promotion) 


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

The moon shone silver on the newly fallen snow, and Faramir stood by the window, watching the tranquil world. The wallowing trees and flickering shadows meant little to him, save what they might conceal. He looked for some sign, some visitor to enter Imladris. No one came: Faramir remained. When the moon touched the horizon, he swept away from the window, and slept without rest.

* * *

Faramir watched the thin blue lines appear on the old parchment. He did not feel responsible for those lines, did not connect the words and the hand writing them with his heart and mind. He wrote a story, the tale behind the tapestry which, over the past two weeks, he had watched the threads form under Arwen's careful tutelage.

"What are you writing?"

Before looking to see who had asked, Faramir snapped the book shut. Arwen flinched, but kept her eyes fixed on the boy. "It's dumb," he said, then leapt to his feet, took a step forward and knelt to look through the threads in the basket on the floor. The elven lady again said nothing, keeping to herself the fact that she saw respect in Faramir's eyes when he set the book down. "This one?"

"Yes." She took the deep red from his hand.

"Why do you use the red threads so often?" Now he was standing and tracing the few green leaves she had woven, the tiny blue bird.

"I use dark reds to make the other colors brighter. A more ideal color might be black, but with black rooms grow smaller and less cheerful."

For a time he watched her hands move, watched the picture grow. Around Arwen Faramir was comfortable: he found her calm, quiet strength a beacon of hope. He respected her without fear, and felt safe beside her. Yet he knew, more and more as the feeling of a snake in his belly grew, that Arwen could not give him what he needed. She could raise him an artist, a lover, but never a warrior. Not for the battles he knew he would fight.

* * *

'I am not a traitor,' Faramir told himself, silently watching an elf at swordplay. Over the course of the past month, Faramir had learned two things about this particular elf--his name was Glorfindel, and he was a hero. 'I am not a traitor to Arwen, or to Gondor, if I learn from him.'

"Can you teach me?" Faramir asked. "Can you teach me how to do that?"

Glorfindel regarded the boy. Small for his age, timidity hiding behind a mask of determination, over the past few weeks Faramir had been growing, whether or not he noticed it himself. Why teach weapons arts to a boy hardly able to handle his own arms and legs?

Glorfindel nodded. "When would you like to begin?"

"Now."

Glorfindel knew he had made the right choice.

Another week passed. Snow continued to fall. Faramir stood by the window every night and, unknown to him, Elrond stood in the doorway and watched him. Thorongil did not come. Faramir began to leave the window earlier and earlier.

After yet another week, Faramir hadn't the energy to stand by the window. He spent every minute he could spare with a sword in his hand. "What drives you?" Glorfindel asked one day, impressed by his student's swift progress.

Faramir turned to Glorfindel and met his eyes, and he answered with one word: "Hatred."

* * *

"Arwen?"

Faramir had been surprised to find her sitting in the kitchen where she often baked bread, beside a small fire and reading a book by moonlight. "Sunshine." She looked up at him and smiled, not only with her lips but with her eyes as well. "You could not sleep either?" He shook his head and went to sit beside her. "Shall we bake bread?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on." She closed her book and set it in a corner, then hauled Faramir to his feet with surprising strength. Before Faramir could fully get his mind around the situation at hand, he was mixing dry ingredients in a clay bowl. Watching Arwen work, he could not focus on the bowl before him. She used no traditional measures, only what seemed right. When she hefted a bowl to measure by its weight, Faramir nearly moaned at the slight bounce of her breasts. This disturbed him greatly, and he looked at mix of flour and salt and only Arwen knew what else, which he ought to have been stirring.

"Sunshine?" Arwen said, and he looked up with such severity that he splashed a crescent-moon of flour onto the floor.

He froze, then quickly apologized. "It is nothing," the elven lady assured him. "Hold the bowl steady."

"Should I not clean the... the flour?"

"No," she answered, "there will likely be more of a mess before we are through. As it is said, _Weep not over beer not yet spilt._ Please hold the bowl steady." This time Faramir obeyed, and Arwen poured the milk into his bowl. He watched the liquid slither over the flour, forming a slimy cover. "It is interesting, Sunshine..." Arwen dragged a finger through the slime, scarring its cover to reveal the same powdery flour within. "No matter how the outside may appear, it takes something more to have a last effect."

He began to stir, not sure what else to do. "Fold the batter; that will help."

For a good while they worked in silence, then Faramir, feeling impulsive and brave stood on tiptoe to sprinkle a pinch of flour into Arwen's hair. She knew at once.

"Little rogue!" In retaliation she coated her finger in batter and swiped at Faramir's nose. He again used flour against her, and Arwen scooped up a handful of flour to drop directly into Faramir's hair. This time he used her tactic and painted stripes in bread dough on her cheeks. Before they knew what had happened, both had fallen to the ground in laughter, covered in dough and flour. "So much for baking bread," Arwen commented, motioning to the empty bowl.

Faramir only smiled. He could not feel that he had done anything wrong, could not believe that the mess he and Arwen had created between them was anything further than good fun. It was nearly midnight, in winter, but Faramir felt warm inside. He was in a foreign land filled with people and languages he was only beginning to know, yet he felt so at home his heart ached for happiness.

Then, quite suddenly, Arwen stood and began brushing the dough and flour off of her; Faramir had only to glance at the face of the Elven lord in the doorway and his happiness evaporated. Elrond began to speak, and Faramir pelt out the kitchen's back door, into the night.

"Sunshine!" Arwen was only a moment later calling him back, but he would not come. He could not return. He could only run.

The funny thing about running: after the ache and burn ebbed, the rhythm took over and there was, for Faramir, a moment of profound understanding. He understood that he could make the pain pass, that only if he held the ache close would it remain with him. He understood about Arwen and the flour. More than anything he understood that there were many things beyond his control, that he was only a boy, a thirteen-year-old half-man, half-boy who could not, for all he wished, control the world.

He was smiling when his heart stopped.

To be continued!

Oh, how I love cliff-hangers.

A lot of people have asked for an update: I haven't updated in so long because I've been on holiday. But now I'm back, and quite ready to write to the ending! I'm sorry to leave you all hanging like that, but there really wasn't a choice.

Also I am currently in need of a beta reader for this story, so if anyone can help me with that I'd much appreciate it.

Lirenel: The story will and will not go to the War of the ring. Any more specific answer would be a spoiler!


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